XX 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 


w 


ITH    GUN    AND 
ROD  IN  CANADA 

PHIL    H.     MOORE 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 
1922 


First  published  1922 
All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED   IN  GREAT   BRITAIN   BY 
BILLING   AND  SONS,   LTD.,  GUILDFORD   AND   ESHER 


To  Lake   Rossignol 

OF  sunny  France,  the  hardy  Rossignol 
By  kwedun*  journeyed,  seeking  land  and  game, 
Up  O-gum-keg-e-ok,t  of  Micmac  fame, 
Till  from  an  oak-top,  by  a  waterfall, 
He  spied  vast  lakes  and  purple  ridges  tall; 
Then,  in  his  birch  canoe  of  slender  frame, 
At  night  he  dared  the  waves — they  overcame, 
And  hurried  him  to  join  the  hosts  of  Gaul ! 

O,  siren-natured,  gray,  Acadian  sea  ! 
You  harp  a  luring  song,  your  dangers  veil, 
Entice  brave  voyageurs ;  then,  snarl  and  lash, 
And  rend  them  on  the  boulders  in  the  lee — 
(That  sportive  Glooscapt  tossed  to  see  you  splash) — 
Bold  victims  of  a  Circean  nightingale  ! 

*  Bark  canoe.  t  Mersey  River,  N.S. 

t  Mythical  Micmac  giant. 


365069 


Contents 


PACK 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   AN    OLD   WINCHESTER  I 

OUTSTALKING   A   COUGAR  3 

TROUT-FISHING    EAST   V6TSUS  WEST  9 

NOVA   SCOTIA   TROUT-FISHING    IN    SEPTEMBER  l8 

WORMS  3° 

WINTER   FLY-FISHING    IN    NOVA  SCOTIA  34 
ILLUSTRATING  THE  "  TIMIDITY  "    OF  THE    NOVA   SCOTIA  BLACK 

BEAR  3^ 

FOR   THE   BENEFIT   OF   CITY   NIMRODS  46 

MEMORIES    OF    MOOSE-SHOOTING  59 

U-FISH  71 

"  TOLLING  "    WILD    ANIMALS  77 

SMALL   BOAT   WRINKLES  8l 

SHOOTING   A   GRIZZLY   WITH    A   COFFEE-POT  87 

SHOOTING    FROM    A   CANOE  IOO 

THE   UNINVITED    GUEST  IC"5 

OUTGUESSING   A   BULL  Il8 

THE   GRIZZLY   AGREES  124 

THE    BUSINESS    OF    MOOSE-HUNTING  129 

SPORTING   INNOCENTS   ABROAD  134 

CANOEING    IN    SWIFT   WATER  I41 

CANOEING  IN  SWIFT  WATER  (continued)  154 

CANOEING    IN    SWIFT   WATER    (continued)  164 

WHITE    MOOSE  175 

SAVING    MOOSE    MEAT  l8l 

THE    NINE-MILE    HOLD-UP  1 86 

FLY-FISHING   AMONG   THE    ICE-CAKES  2OI 

RESURRECTION  204 

A   CRUISE   ON    LAKE   ROSSIGNOL,    NOVA   SCOTIA  2O8 

vii 


Contents 


PAGE 

THE    KEJIMKUJIK    MONSTER  228 

WILD    EDITORS    I    HAVE    KNOWN  2^J 

ARBOREAL   ABERRATIONS  2<f3 

WHAT     TO      TAKE      FOR      SPRING  AND     SUMMER      FISHING      IN 

NOVA  SCOTIA  249 

LETTER    FROM    JO    KOSE — GUIDE  254 


List  of  Illustrations 

PLATE 

i.  THE  OLD  WINCHESTER  Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

II.  PAT  AND  HIS  BEAR  44 

III.  I.  DANGEROUS  CURIOSITY  46 

2.  DIDN'T  KNOW  IT  WOULD  TIP  OVER  46 

3.  DIDN'T  KNOW  THAT    HAMMER    OR  TRIGGER   MIGHT 

CATCH  ON  THWART  OR  PAINTER  46 

4.  THE  AXE  IS  PATENTLY  A  POOR  PLAYTHING  FOR  THE 

UNINITIATED  46 

iv.  i.  THE  PARSON'S  MOOSE-HEAD,  AND  GUIDE  60 

2.  DEFORMED    MOOSE-HORNS  60 

3.  NORMAL    MOOSE-FOOT   ON    LEFT,    ABNORMAL    GROWTH 

ON    RIGHT  6O 

V.    I.    ONE    OF   THE    LITTLE   CHAPS    POKED    HIS    HEAD    OUT  78 

2.    HE    CREPT    CLOSER  /8 

VI.  I.  THE  SEAT  AND  ENGINE  PLAN  OF  THE  DORY,  AND  FULL 
EQUIPMENT  OF  LIFE-PRESERVER  CUSHIONS,  OARS, 
SPARE  TILLER,  ETC.  84 

2.  AFTER  END  OF  ENGINE-ROOM,  SHOWING  WATER-TIGHT 

BATTERY    BOX,    TWO    TERMINAL     SPARK-PLUGS     AND 
DOUBLE   THROW   SWITCH  84 

3.  ARRANGEMENT     OF     ROWLOCK     UNDER    THE     RUDDER- 

YOKE — MAY    BE   USED    FOR   STEERING    OR   SCULLING  84 

4.  FORWARD    END     OF     ENGINE-ROOM,   SHOWING    WATER- 

PROOF TOOL-BOX  ON  LEFT,  AND  BILGE-PUMP  SETTING         84 

VII.    I.    DON'T   LEAN    BACKWARDS THE    RECOIL    IS    LIABLE    TO 

TIP    YOU    OVER  IOO 

2.  DON'T    TURN    ROUND    AND    SIT    UP    IN    THE    BOW  IOO 

3.  IT    IS    DANGEROUS   TO    KNEEL    UP    IN    THIS    POSITION  IOO 

4.  THIS    IS    SAFER  IOO 

VIII.    I.    NEVER    POINT    A     COCKED     GUN    INTO     THE     HULL     OF 

THE    CANOE  IO2 

2.    THE  CORRECT  WAY  TO   CARRY  A  GUN  WHEN  SHOOTING 

FROM   A   CANOE  IO2 

ix 


List  of  Illustrations 

PLATE  FACING  PAGB 

IX.    I.   THE  CORRECT  POSITION   FOR  POLING  A  LIGHT  CANOE 

UP  THE  RAPIDS  142 

2.  I  SHOULD  HAVE  PULLED  THE  STERN  TOWARDS  THE 

RIGHT  AND  GOT  IT  CLEAR  OF  THE  RETURN  CURRENT  142 
3-  FIFTY  FEET  FROM  THE  CAMERA.  POLE  IS  PULLED 

TOWARDS  THE  STERN  TO  TURN  BOW  MORE  TO  LEFT  142 
4.  BE  SURE  YOUR  CANOE  IS  HEADED  FAIRLY  UPSTREAM,  SO 

THE   CURRENT   WILL    NOT   SWING    IT  142 

X.  I.  ACTION  VERY  STRENUOUS:  NOTE  BENDING  POLE — 
OPERATOR  IS  PULLING  STERN  TOWARDS  POLE  AND 
PUSHING  AHEAD  AT  SAME  TIME  150 

2.    STILL    PUSHING   AHEAD  I5O 

3-  SHOOTING  THE  RAPIDS:  POLE  IS  DRAGGED  ALONG  THE 
BOTTOM  TO  REDUCE  HEADWAY  AND  TO  ACT  AS 
RUDDER  I5O 

4.   A    HAND-OVER-HAND    "  RUN  "    OR    "  CLIMB  "    ON    THE 

POLE  I5O 

XI.    I.    NOTE   POLE   WITH    HOLLOW  STEEL  SPIKE,  AND  PADDLE 

IRONED    FOR    ROCKY   STREAMS  156 

2.  A   GOOD  TYPE   OF   KELLICK  OR  ANCHOR,  AND  RIGGING 

FOR   SWIFT  WATER  156 

3.  POSITION  OF  HANDS  ON  CENTRE  THWART,  PREPARATORY 

TO  "  ROLLING  "  CANOE  UP  ON  TO  SHOULDERS  156 

4.  PROPER     POSITION      WHEN      CARRYING — THE     CENTRE 

THWART  ACROSS    BACK    OF    NECK  156 

XII.    I.    CATCHING    A    WAVE    AS    IT    BEGINS    TO    FLATTEN    OUT 

AFTER    BREAKING  I 68 

2.  SHOOTS   YOU  SMOOTHLY   ON   THE   SAND  l68 

3.  AT  THIS  POINT  CANOE  IS  GOING  AT  SAME  SPEED  AS  TOP 

OF   WAVE — FULLY  TWENTY   MILES   AN    HOUR  1 68 

4.  KNEEL     FORWARD     OF     THE      CENTRE      THWART      AND 

PADDLE   TOWARDS   THE   SHORE  1 68 

XIII.  I.  HANDLING  A  CANOE  IN  SURF  IS  A  MATTER  OF  TIMING 
WAVES.  HERE  CANOE  WAS  SHOVED  INTO  THE 
BREAKING  WAVE  TOO  SOON  17° 

2.  JUMPING    IN    JUST   AFTER   WAVE    HAS    BROKEN  1JO 

3.  THE    CORRECT    PLACE    FOR   TOWING    RING    IS   AS    NEAR 

LINE   AS    POSSIBLE  17° 

4.  WHEN   CANOE   IS   NOT  EQUIPPED   WITH   TOWING   RING, 

RIG   A   BRIDLE   AS   SHOWN  17° 

X 


List  of  Illustrations 

PLATB  FACING    PAGE 

XIV.    I.    SKINNING  l82 

2.  CLEAVING   THE   BREAST-BONE  l82 

3.  ROLL   THE   CARCASS   ON    ITS   SIDE  1 82 

4.  A    STRONG     MAN    CAN     CARRY    A    QUARTER    OF    MOOSE 

MEAT — IT   MAY  WEIGH    IOO-I75  LBS.                                      l82 

XV.    I.    ARBOREAL  ABERRATIONS  244 

2.             „                         „  244 

3-  »                         »  244 

4-  »                         »  244 

xvi.  i.         ,.                 „  246 

2.             „                        „  246 

3-         »,                »  246 

4.         „               „  246 


Autobiography  of  an  Old 
Winchester 

ON  February  9,  1901,  Captain  Barrett,  of  the 
Western  Arms  and  Sporting  Goods  Company  in 
Salt  Lake  City,  Utah,  presented  me  to  a  young 
mining  engineer.  The  following  spring  I  accompanied 
him  on  a  prospecting  trip  in  the  Wahsatch  Range  and 
killed  a  cinnamon  bear.  Then  he  took  me  on  a  coaching 
tour  through  the  mountains  of  Idaho.  I  furnished  the 
meat  for  our  party.  On  returning,  my  owner,  with  a 
partner  and  pack-outfit,  travelled  through  Strawberry 
Pass  into  Ashley  Valley.  We  killed  coyotes,  sage-hens, 
and  an  elk.  From  Ashley  to  Price  (125  miles  through 
the  Bad  Lands)  I  shot  a  vulture;  also,  "  chance  shot  "  a 
buck  antelope — 1,000  yards.  At  Price  we  railed  to 
Salt  Lake. 

One  day  a  man  asked  us  to  go  buffalo-hunting.  He 
took  us  to  Antelope  Island,  in  Great  Salt  Lake,  where 
a  rancher  had  some  "  tame  "  wild  buffalo.  A  big  bull 
was  on  the  rampage,  and  when  we  got  near  him  he 
chased  us  to  an  old  log  cabin.  The  bull  struck  the  wall 
at  about  the  same  instant  we  struck  the  roof.  I  got  in 
the  first  shot  and  the  bull  went  down. 

Then  we  made  a  i,4oo-mile  pack-outfit  trip  through 
the  Uintah  and  Bookcliff  Mountains,  Brown's  Park,  and 
the  Bad  Lands.  On  this  trip  we  joined  a  posse  headed 
by  Deputy  United  States  Marshal  Smith,  which  was 
chasing  two  outlaws  through  the  Rockies.  We  reached 


With  Gun  £?  Rod  in  Canada 


Salt  Lake  for  Christmas.  The  renegades  sleep  in  the 
desert. 

Early  in  1902  we  went  to  a  mine  in  Route  County, 
Colorado.  Deer,  elk,  and  excitement  were  "  plenty." 

One  day  I  was  lying  in  my  master's  bunk  beside  the 
stove.  Noticing  a  queer  liquid  dripping  out  of  the 
oven,  the  cook  suddenly  remembered  the  thawing 
dynamite.  Everybody  ran.  The  cabin  blew  up.  I 
was  blown  a  hundred  feet  and  picked  up  uninjured. 
Then  we  slid  down  the  mountain  on  skis  for  assistance, 
and  had  to  shoot  two  lean  timber  wolves  en  route.  It 
is  lucky  that  I  was  stoutly  built. 

I  have  helped  to  kill  grizzly  and  black  bear,  mountain 
lion,  sheep,  and  goats.  I  travelled  north  to  Sitka  and 
south  to  Chihuahua,  and  thence  east  to  Nova  Scotia. 
I  spent  ten  days  under  water.  I  shot  seals  along  the 
Nova  Scotia  coast  from  a  motor-boat.  I  shot  caribou 
near  Moose  Factory  on  Hudson  Bay.  Then  I  joined 
the  gold  rush  into  Porcupine.  The  next  four  years  I 
was  carried  from  coast  to  coast  in  Canada. 

In  1916  I  was  taken  back  to  Nova  Scotia,  where,  from 
my  master's  hunting  cabin  on  Lake  Rossignol,  I  have 
sallied  forth  each  fall  to  bring  down  a  fine  bull  moose. 
Though  my  experience  has  detracted  from  my  appearance, 
I  still  shoot  straight. 


Outstalking  a  Cougar 

IT  was  in  the  early  winter  of  1899,  over  in  the  Brown's 
Park  country  in  north-eastern  Utah.  Upon  second 
thought,  it  may  have  been  in  southern  Wyoming  or 
north-western  Colorado,  as  the  three  States  come  in 
contact  somewhere  in  Brown's  Park.  Now,  Brown's  Park 
at  the  time  of  which  I  write  was  no  headquarters  for 
perambulating  nursemaids,  frog-ponds,  or  flower-gardens. 
There  was  one  continual  grand  battle-royal  between 
the  sheep-herders,  cattlemen,  outlaws,  Mormons,  and 
Uncompargre  (simplified  spelling)  and  Uintah  Ute 
Indians.  The  Indians,  in  fact,  were  the  quietest  and 
most  harmless  human  beings  in  the  lot,  and  merely 
kept  on  the  outskirts  of  things  and  picked  up  whatever 
was  left  from  the  various  stampedes  and  brawls.  They 
usurped  the  place  of  the  proverbial  honest  (called 
"  white  "  in  the  West)  men  when  the  "  thieves  fell  out." 
The  proximity  of  the  three  States  made  it  a  very 
short  journey  for  ne'er-do-wells  to  commit  some  depre- 
dation against  a  neighbour's  sheep,  cattle,  or  horses,  then 
eat  their  lunch  on  one  side  of  the  line  and  wash  their 
dishes  on  the  other.  The  sheriffs  and  deputies  of  the 
three  different  counties  of  the  three  different  States 
interested  were  most  circumspect  in  their  recognition 
of  the  ethics  of  the  sport  called  man-hunting,  and 
seemed  to  take  particular  pains  not  to  encroach  upon 
each  other's  preserves. 

A  set  of  papers  that  would  do  to  jail  a  man  within 
Route  County,  Colorado,  was  a  mere  scrap  of  paper  in 
Uintah  County,  Utah,  and  Uintah  County  papers  were 

3 


With  Gun     P  Rod  in  Canada 


not  worth  a  darn  for  service  on  "  Hole-in-  the-  Wallers  " 
who  had  slipped  over  into  Wyoming.  It  was  a  com- 
bination of  Merry-go-round  and  Fox-and-geese,  with 
the  officers  always  in  the  wrong  place,  and  the  outlaws 
leading  a  gipsy  but  rather  safe  existence. 

Of  course,  when  United  States  deputy-marshals  got 
on  the  job,  it  was  another  story.  The  birds  of  ill  omen 
then  flew  to  their  various  "  roosts  "  and  "  hide-outs  " 
in  the  mountains. 

Occasionally  an  exasperated  county  officer  would  send 
a  vicious  rifle  bullet  over  the  line,  providing  his  quarry 
had  been  too  impudent  for  human  nature  to  stand,  but 
not  often. 

After  describing  such  a  country  it  may  be  a  little  hard 
to  explain  just  why  I  was  in  that  neck  of  the  woods. 
Mining  is  the  answer.  I  was,  at  the  time  of  which  I 
write,  the  boss  of  a  small  thirty-ton  water-jack  copper 
smelter.  I  used  to  hunt  Sundays  and  any  other  time 
that  I  had  an  opportunity.  It  was  a  great  country  for 
black-tailed  deer,  cougars,  and  bears. 

I  had  shot  a  great  many  deer,  but  not  having  any 
dogs  or  traps,  had  been  unable  to  get  within  rifle-shot 
of  either  a  grizzly  or  lion. 

Early  one  Sunday  morning  I  sallied  forth  with  a 
•38-55  Marlin  rifle,  the  usual  six-gun,  calibre  forty-five, 
hunting-knife,  and  plenty  of  grub  for  all  day.  There 
was  a  nice  crust  on  the  snow  up  in  the  mountains,  and 
just  before  noon,  as  I  toiled  slowly  up  a  long  draw  which 
shallowed  as  it  approached  the  ridge,  I  succeeded  in 
starting  and  killing  a  fine  fat  doe.  After  dressing  this 
animal  I  built  a  fire  and  had  some  lunch.  While  toasting 
my  feet  and  munching  my  lunch,  my  eye  wandered 
aimlessly  along  the  top  edge  of  one  side  of  the  canyon, 
and  espied  a  cougar  loping  along  against  the  skyline. 
I  could  not  tell  whether  it  had  seen  me  or  not.  What 


Outstalking  a  Cougar 

wind  there  was  seemed  to  be  drawing  straight  down  the 
canyon,  and  I  felt  sure  he  had  not  gotten  my  scent. 
The  cougar  in  the  meantime  scrambled  down  over  the 
edge  of  the  cliff  and  disappeared  in  a  crevice  in  the  rocks. 

To  digress  again  for  a  moment:  As  I  look  back  on  my 
thoughts  and  behaviour  of  the  next  hour,  I  do  not 
wonder  that  the  Governments  of  the  world  have  found 
from  experience  that  boys  in  their  teens  and  early 
twenties  make  the  best  aviators.  My  actions  after 
seeing  that  cougar  were  not  governed  by  reasoning 
nor  common  sense.  I  just  naturally  followed  some 
primal  instinct,  and  went  after  that  cat.  Leaving  my 
coat,  lunch,  and  venison  beside  the  embers  of  the  fire, 
guarded  only  by  a  couple  of  empty  shells,  following  the 
tradition  that  the  smell  of  burnt  powder  will  keep  away 
coyotes,  I  started  up  the  side  of  those  cliffs  with  the 
cougar's  lair  as  my  objective.  Coming  to  the  mouth 
of  the  crevice,  which,  a  mere  seam  in  the  rocks  ten  feet 
above  my  head,  opened  at  the  base  to  nearly  twice  the 
width  of  a  man's  body,  I  stopped  and  fired  a  shot  from 
my  forty-five  into  the  gloom.  I  jumped  back  and 
waited,  but  nothing  happened.  I  tried  it  again  with 
the  same  result. 

Being  impatient  to  start  something,  I  laid  my  rifle 
on  the  ground,  loaded  the  empty  chamber  of  my  six- 
gun,  and  with  it  in  one  hand  and  my  hunting-knife  in 
the  other,  crawled  into  that  black,  spooky-looking  hole 
after  that  cat.  I  wouldn't  do  it  to-day  for  a  million 
dollars ! 

I  crawled  along  some  ten  or  twelve  feet,  the  hole 
getting  narrower  and  my  head-room  less  as  I  dragged 
myself  forward.  When  the  bulk  of  my  body  had  shut 
off  the  light  behind  me,  I  stopped  and  listened.  Some- 
where ahead  in  the  darkness  I  heard  the  cat  growling. 
I  hunched  forward  a  few  more  feet,  and  then  got  sight 

5 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

of  its  two  blazing  eyes.  No  hunter  needs  to  be  told 
what  a  wild  animal's  eyes  look  like  in  a  dark  place.  If 
my  hair  had  been  three  feet  long  it  would  have  stood 
straight  on  end.  I  unlimbered  the  old  forty-five,  and 
the  report  deafened  and  must  have  scared  the  cat.  It 
let  out  a  nerve-racking  snarl;  there  was  a  scrambling 
and  rolling  of  stones,  a  puff  of  dust,  and  then  absolute 
stillness.  I  could  hear  my  heart  beating.  In  fact,  it 
made  a  noise  like  a  riveting  hammer  on  a  piece  of  boiler 
plate.  I  waited  with  my  six-shooter  cocked  for  some- 
thing to  happen.  Finally,  after  quite  a  struggle,  I  lit 
a  match.  There  was  no  cougar  in  sight.  I  found  that 
my  head  and  shoulders  were  sticking  out  into  an  irregu- 
larly-shaped rocky  chamber,  perhaps  fifteen  feet  long 
and  six  or  seven  feet  wide,  and  high  enough  to  stand 
up  in.  I  crawled  in,  and  lighting  various  matches  began 
to  explore.  The  crevice  in  the  rock  making  this  little 
cavern,  narrowed  down  at  the  far  end,  turned  to  the 
left,  and  went  almost  straight  up  like  a  chimney.  Peering 
up  this  hole  with  my  light  extinguished,  I  could  see  a 
faint  gleam  of  daylight.  As  it  seemed  to  be  big  enough 
for  the  purpose,  I  proceeded  to  climb.  I  found  it 
difficult  to  worm  my  way  up  this  hole  with  a  cocked 
six-shooter  in  my  hand.  When  I  had  negotiated  some 
seven  or  eight  feet  of  the  chimney,  it  widened,  took  a 
little  more  horizontal  angle,  and  came  to  the  light  of 
day  under  the  edge  of  a  big  sandstone  boulder  some 
thirty  feet  above  where  I  had  entered.  I  stuck  my 
head  out  and  looked  around,  winded  and  scratched, 
but  keenly  alive  to  eventualities.  Then  I  crawled  out, 
stood  up,  and  looked  for  tracks.  There  was  a  little 
wind  drift  of  powdered  snow  along  the  edge  of  the 
mesa  that  I  was  now  standing  upon,  and  I  soon  found 
what  I  was  looking  for.  The  cougar's  tracks  were  there, 
but  there  was  no  blood.  He  had  evidently  loped  down 

6 


Outstalking  a  Cougar 

along  the  edge  of  the  cliff  in  the  direction  from  which 
he  had  first  come  when  I  saw  him  while  at  lunch.  As 
there  was  no  foliage  and  the  edge  of  the  mesa  was 
practically  without  cover,  and  the  cougar  was  not  in 
sight,  I  concluded  he  must  have  gone  down  over  the 
edge  of  the  cliff  to  hide  in  among  the  rocks  on  its  rough 
face.  Keeping  well  back  from  the  edge,  I  followed 
his  tracks,  now  and  then  discernible  between  the  bare 
spots,  for  perhaps  two  hundred  yards,  and  then  lost 
them.  I  crawled  on  my  stomach  to  the  edge  of  the 
cliff  and  looked  over.  There  was  no  game  in  sight. 
Crawling  carefully  back,  I  followed  the  edge  of  the 
mesa  perhaps  another  hundred  yards,  and  this  time  was 
rewarded  by  a  sight  of  the  lion  lying  at  full  length  on  a 
little  ledge  of  rock  some  twenty-five  or  thirty  yards 
below  me,  and  perhaps  fifty  yards  to  the  left.  Cautiously 
taking  the  back  track,  I  estimated  the  right  spot  to 
again  peer  over  the  cliff  and  get  a  shot.  As  I  had 
nothing  but  my  forty-five  to  kill  him  with,  I  did  not 
wish  to  take  any  chances.  The  next  time  I  peered 
over  the  cliff  the  cat  was  not  over  forty  yards  from  my 
position. 

Even  while  carefully  aiming  my  six-shooter  at  the 
back  of  his  head,  I  could  not  but  note  the  sly  curiosity 
with  which  he  was  watching  the  entrance  to  the  cave 
where  both  he  and  I  had  first  gone  in.  Although  I 
could  not  see  it,  it  must  have  been  in  plain  sight  from 
where  he  was  lying  flattened  out  on  the  ledge  like  a 
squirrel  on  the  limb  of  a  tree.  I  even  noted  the  tip  of 
his  tawny  tail  as  it  snakily  waved,  slowly  back  and 
forth. 

I  fired. 

With  the  click  of  the  hammer  the  cougar  sprang  out 
into  the  air,  struck  some  jagged  boulders  forty  or  fifty 
feet  below,  tumbled  and  rolled  a  few  yards  farther  down, 

7 


With  Gun     P  Rod  in  Canada 


and  then  lay  still  and  crumpled  among  the  sandstone 
boulders. 

When  I  scrambled  down  to  him  he  was  stone  dead, 
the  bullet  having  struck  the  back  of  his  head  between  his 
ears  and  penetrated  his  brain. 

Outside  of  feeling  weak  in  the  knees  and  shaking  like 
a  leaf,  I  was  not  very  much  excited  ! 

It  took  me  all  the  afternoon  to  get  that  cat  skinned,  and 
the  hide  tied  up  for  carrying.  It  was  dark  by  the  time 
I  got  my  rifle  and  had  the  skin  back  to  the  camp-fire. 
It  was  half-past  ten  at  night  before  I  got  back  to  the 
bunk-house  with  my  load. 

The  next  morning  I  sent  a  boy  with  a  burro  to  pack 
in  the  venison. 


Trout- Fishing  East  versus  West 

FROM    north-eastern    Utah    to    Lake    Rossignol, 
Nova  Scotia,  is  a  long  cast,  but  it  did  not  seem 
so  far  in  the  spring  of  1902  when  I  unpacked  my 
fishing  tackle,  with  its  odour  of  Rocky  Mountain  trout 
"  hanging  'round  it  still,"  to  throw  a  fly  for  the  first 
time  into  a  real  Acadian  trout  stream.     The  fall  before 
I   had   been   fishing,    and   incidentally   copper-mining, 
in  the  Rockies.     Fishing,  and  incidentally  gold-mining, 
had  brought  me  to  Nova  Scotia. 

My  first  morning's  angling  in  the  Kejimkujik  River, 
a  couple  of  miles  upstream  from  Lake  Rossignol,  was 
an  eye-opener.  It  happened  to  be  just  the  right  season, 
an  ideal  day,  and  exactly  the  right  hour  for  fly-fishing. 
The  water  literally  teemed  with  fish.  It  was  one  of 
those  favourable  combinations  of  season,  weather, 
water,  and  eager  trout  that  an  angler  is  blessed  with  but 
few  times  in  his  life.  I  caught  singles,  doubles,  and 
triples.  In  something  less  than  an  hour  I  had  the 
limit — twenty  fish.  And  such  fish !  The  smallest 
weighed  nine  ounces,  the  largest  three  pounds  six  ounces, 
and  the  majority  were  all  big  ones.  Tom,  my  guide 
(requiescat  in  pace  f),  seemed  interested,  though  not 
the  least  excited,  and  was  quite  firm  about  me  catching 
no  more  that  day.  Convinced  that  I  could  load  the 
canoe,  I  was  eager  to  keep  right  on  fishing  while  the 
going  was  good.  Tom  quietly  persisted,  however,  and 
explained  to  me  that  the  law  said  twenty  a  day  was  the 
limit,  and,  besides,  they  would  spoil  on  our  hands  if  we 
killed  more. 


With  Gun  £?  Rod  in  Canada 


These  trout  were  such  sporty,  husky,  lungeing  fellows 
that  I  couldn't  give  up  my  desire  to  continue  the  game, 
and  so,  breaking  off  the  barbs  of  my  three  flies,  I  tried 
my  luck  this  way,  and  succeeded  in  dipping  a  number, 
only  to  toss  them  back  into  the  stream.  Tom  seemed 
to  think  it  strange  that  my  enthusiasm  was  so  aroused, 
and  nonchalantly  informed  me  that  such  an  experience 
was  not  uncommon  in  Rossignol  waters  and  in  streams 
tributary  thereto. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  was  constantly  comparing  the 
size  of  these  Nova  Scotia  trout  with  those  I  had  caught 
but  a  few  months  before  in  a  little  Rocky  Mountain 
torrent,  called  by  the  Mormons  Ashley  Creek.  There 
my  Mormon  "  pardner  "  and  I  had  waded  in  the  swift 
water,  or  crept  and  clambered  along  the  rocky  banks 
(meanwhile  keeping  a  keen  lookout  for  rattlesnakes,  with 
which  the  valley  was  infested),  and  had  been  well  satis- 
fied if  we  caught  a  dozen  or  fifteen  speckled  beauties, 
the  largest  of  which  would  be  perhaps  seven  inches  long. 
Our  fishing  outfit  consisted  of  cowboy  riding-boots  with 
high  heels  (poor  things  for  wading),  a  flour-sack  partially 
ripped  up  on  both  sides  and  with  ends  tied  around  the 
neck  for  a  creel,  a  dollar-and-a-half  rod,  and  a  tin  reel. 
The  lines,  leaders,  and  flies  were  strong,  and  when  we 
hooked  a  trout  we  just  naturally  pulled  him  in  and  put 
him  in  the  sack. 

Travelling  on  horseback  through  this  Rocky  Mountain 
country,  which  was  something  over  a  hundred  miles 
from  the  railroad,  with  a  pack-outfit  was  the  usual  mode 
of  locomotion.  We  always  carried  our  little  rods  with 
us,  and  the  rest  of  the  paraphernalia  in  our  pockets. 
The  placid,  still-water  brooks  in  the  mountain  "  parks," 
as  the  Mormons  call  the  upland  meadows,  were  also 
fine  places  for  these  diminutive  but  delicious  trout. 
To  fish  successfully  these  waters  it  was  our  practice 

10 


Trout- Fishing  East  versus  West 

to  sneak  up  on  all  fours  near  enough  to  the  edge  of  the 
brook  to  enable  us  to  drop  the  fly  into  the  water,  and, 
if  a  fish  took  hold,  to  flip  him  back  over  our  heads  into 
the  grass.  If  a  fisherman  showed  himself  on  the  bank, 
the  trout  would  hide  under  the  overhang  and  sulk. 

In  the  very  high  altitudes  we  now  and  then  struck 
a  mountain  pool  full  of  trout.  They  were  usually 
ravenous  and  would  bite  anything  thrown  into  the  water. 
Although  marked  about  the  same  as  an  Eastern  brook- 
trout,  these  fish  were  lean  and  weak,  and  would  not 
put  up  much  of  a  fight  after  being  hooked.  It  was  a 
local  tradition  that  the  fish  stayed  there  all  winter 
frozen  in,  and,  as  normal  food  was  scarce,  cannibalized 
to  a  great  extent. 

As  the  swift-running  mountain  brooks  were  usually 
lined  with  bushes,  fishing  was  quite  a  chore.  It  was 
almost  impossible  to  cast,  and  one  had  to  wriggle  and 
scramble  among  these  bushes  and  rocks,  dropping  the 
fly  as  best  he  could  in  the  likely-looking  pools  and  rills. 
Leaving  this  sort  of  fishing  in  the  fall,  and  early  in  the 
spring  being  fortunate  enough  to  get  the  very  best 
of  Nova  Scotia  trout-fishing,  I  was  amazed  at  the  differ- 
ence in  the  fish.  The  way  those  big,  meaty,  powerful 
Eastern  fellows  took  the  fly  was  a  caution  !  When  I  saw 
the  first  splash  and  felt  the  first  yank  on  the  rod,  I  woke 
right  up.  That  trout  weighed  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  a  pound.  From  the  way  he  took  hold  I  thought  he 
weighed  ten. 

Then  again,  sitting  comfortably  in  a  canoe  on  a  broad, 
breezy  river  with  lots  of  room  to  cast  was  "  some  " 
luxury  after  our  sweaty,  rough,  and  entangling  alliances 
with  the  Rocky  Mountain  fish.  Although  the  Utah 
blackflies  have  nothing  on  the  Nova  Scotia  brand  when 
it  comes  to  lunching  off  "  sports,"  the  wide,  windy  stream 
was  quite  free  from  the  pests.  For  some  reason  Nova 

ii 


With  Gun  ft?  Rod  in  Canada 


Scotia  blackflies  did  not  seem  to  care  for  guide-meat,  but 
I  found  that  when  we  went  ashore  for  lunch  they  were 
very  partial  to  mining  engineers.  They  sat  right  down 
to^the  table  with  us.  Under  the  circumstances  our 
lunch  did  not  last  long;  in  fact,  it  was  entirely  uncere- 
monious. Without  any  regard  for  the  blackflies'  feelings, 
we  literally  ate  and  ran.  Once  out  in  the  breeze-swept 
current,  we  forgot  blackflies  and  discussed  trout-flies 
without  compunction. 

As  we  headed  upstream  toward  our  tenting-ground 
for  the  approaching  night,  Tom  told  me  many  stories 
and  legends  of  the  Rossignol  district,  the  Kejimkujik 
River,  and  Fairy  Lake,  the  latter  being  several  miles 
above  us.  The  accounts  were  interesting,  and  I  had 
no  reason  to  question  their  authenticity.  But  when 
he  claimed  that  the  blackfly  season  was  practically  over, 
I  scratched  and  doubted,  and  the  following  day  con- 
cluded that  if  his  stories  of  local  history  were  no  better 
founded  than  his  dipterous  theory,  he  was  a  rank  fabulist. 

Speaking  of  blackflies,  and  having  fished  many  seasons 
pretty  well  all  over  Nova  Scotia  during  fly-time  since 
that  memorable  first  trip,  I  have  arrived  at  a  standard 
of  protective  clothing  that  has  worked  out  most  satis- 
factorily, and  may  be  of  value  to  the  prospective  Acadian 
fisherman.  Over  an  ordinary  suit  of  underclothes, 
suitable  to  the  time  of  year,  I  slip  on  a  light-weight, 
closely  woven,  turtle-neck,  long-sleeved  woollen  jersey. 
I  tuck  this  down  inside  my  khaki  trousers  or  overalls. 
A  pair  of  hand-knitted,  heavy  woollen  socks  pulled  up 
over  my  trouser-legs,  and  a  pair  of  low  leather  moccasins, 
complete  the  essential  part  of  the  costume.  A  cap  is 
more  convenient  to  wear  than  a  broad-brimmed  hat, 
especially  if  you  have  to  make  portages  or  do  any  walking 
among  the  bushes.  If  a  fly-net  is  to  be  worn,  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  of  course,  is  better;  but  as  almost  every 

12 


Trout-Fishing  East  versus  West 

fisherman  enjoys  a  good  sweetbriar  pipe  while  fishing, 
to  inflict  him  with  a  fly-net  is  like  making  him  play  the 
part  of  a  wooden  Indian  in  front  of  a  tobacco  shop. 
Consequently  a  small  bottle  of  fly-dope  to  rub  around  the 
face  and  ears  is  less  uncomfortable  than  a  fly-net.  A 
pair  of  cotton  gloves  with  the  fingers  cut  off  will  stand 
about  one  day's  wear  and  tear,  while  a  little  dope  on  the 
back  of  the  hands  will  usually  keep  off  the  pests,  besides 
being  less  annoying  than  the  gloves. 

To  return  to  the  night  that  we  camped  above  Big 
Pessquess  Falls:  As  it  was  to  be  our  first  and  only  night 
out  on  this  trip,  I  watched  with  more  than  usual  interest 
Tom's  preparations.  Now,  as  the  last  fishing  trip  I 
had  taken  had  been  with  one  "  pardner,"  two  saddle- 
horses  and  a  pack-horse  in  far-away  Utah,  I  found  myself 
continually  comparing  the  Eastern  with  the  Western 
methods  of  preparing  for  the  night.  If  it  had  been 
in  the  West,  the  first  thing  that  would  have  influenced 
our  selection  of  a  camping-site  would  have  been  feed 
for  the  horses.  As  trout  cannot  live  in  any  but  sweet 
water,  it  goes  without  saying  that  good  water  would 
have  to  be  available  just  as  in  the  East.  In  the  West  we 
would  have  unpacked  as  near  a  wood  supply  as  possible, 
unsaddled,  and  hobbled  the  horses.  After  building  a 
fire  we  would  have  mixed  a  little  baking-powder  bread 
right  in  the  top  of  the  flour-sack,  and  baked  it  in  salt- 
pork  fat  in  the  frying-pan.  This  bread,  accompanied 
by  honey,  coffee  (never  tea)  with  sugar  (no  milk),  and 
such  canned  supplies  as  may  have  been  expedient  to 
carry  on  our  pack-horse,  would  have  completed  our 
meal,  providing,  of  course,  we  had  not  killed  any  fish 
or  game  during  the  day.  When  it  came  to  sleep,  we 
would  stretch  a  canvas  tarpaulin  out  upon  the  ground, 
roll  up  in  our  blankets  on  this  "  tarp,"  and  pull  the  end 
of  it  up  over  our  feet,  and  even  over  our  heads  if  it 

13 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 


stormed.  We  used  the  "  tarp  "  for  covering  the  pack 
when  travelling.  Never  carrying  an  axe  with  a  pack- 
outfit,  the  camp-fires  were  small,  and  supplied  only  by 
such  fuel  as  we  could  obtain  without  chopping.  That 
method  of  camp  life  seemed  quite  satisfactory  at  the 
time  as  well  as  comfortable. 

Now,  when  Tom  made  camp  for  me  that  night  on  the 
Kejimkujik  River,  he  seemed  to  have  all  the  comforts 
of  home  packed  away  in  his  seventeen-foot  canvas  canoe. 
First  he  selected  a  nice,  grassy,  level  tenting-ground; 
then  he  produced  a  small  eighteen-pound  balloon-silk 
lean-to  tent  with  a  two-foot  wall  in  the  back,  and  which 
was  about  seven  feet  square.  With  a  sharp  axe  it  seemed 
no  time  at  all  before  he  had  this  tent  staked  out  flat  on 
the  ground.  With  the  ridge-pole  supported  by  a  couple 
of  forked  sticks  together,  Tom  and  I  raised  it.  It  made 
as  snug  a  little  shelter  as  one  would  wish  to  sleep  in. 
Once  again  the  axe  came  into  play,  and  Tom  appeared 
with  an  armful  of  dry  pine  chips  and  started  a  fire.  He 
produced  a  folding  open  tin  oven  and  a  small  mixing- 
pan,  and  proceeded  to  make  some  beautiful  tea  biscuit. 
I  cleaned  the  trout,  rolled  them  in  corn  meal,  and  fried 
them  in  bacon  fat.  In  the  meantime  Tom  prepared 
another  frying-pan  full  of  sliced  potatoes  and  onions. 
A  jar  of  fine  strawberry  jam,  put  up  by  his  good  wife, 
completed  the  meal.  Then  came  the  surprise  of  my 
sweet,  young  life.  I  had  been  surreptitiously  looking 
around  for  a  coffee-pot  and  the  coffee  to  put  in  the  same. 
Not  being  successful  in  uncovering  this  necessary  adjunct 
to  the  peaceful  and  enjoyable  life  of  an  outdoor  man, 
I  spotted  a  big  black  open  pail  hanging  over  the  fire 
on  the  end  of  a  stick,  the  other  end  of  which  was  stuck 
in  the  ground  and  partially  supported  by  a  small  boulder. 
This  method  of  heating  dish-water  was  new  to  me,  for  in 
the  West  we  invariably  used  two  forked  sticks  stuck 

«4 


Trout- Fishing  East  versus  West 

in  the  ground  on  either  side  of  a  small  round  fire,  sur- 
mounted by  a  cross-stick  upon  which  was  hung  the  pail 
of  water  for  heating.  The  coffee-pot  usually  simmered 
on  a  flat  stone  among  the  coals  at  one  side.  Gathering 
courage  at  the  risk  of  outraging  Tom's  hospitality,  I 
hazarded: 

"  Where's  the  coffee,  Tom  ?" 

Tom  looked  at  me  bewildered.  "  Coffee  !"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  I  didn't  bring  none.  We  got  plenty  of 
tea,  though.  I'm  cookin'  the  kittle  now." 

The  mystery  of  the  black  pail  of  boiling  water  was 
solved.  As  supper  was  now  ready,  barring  the  coffee, 
Tom  completed  the  cookin'  of  the  "  kittle  "  by  tossing 
a  large  handful  of  black  tea  into  the  boiling  water — 
and  then  he  let  her  boil  some  more  !  After  we  had 
eaten  our  supper  Tom  asked: 

"  Are  you  ready  now  for  your  tea  ?" 

Without  giving  me  an  opportunity  to  deny  his  right 
to  inflict  the  rank  concoction  upon  me,  he  handed  over 
a  large  tin  mug  full,  a  can  of  unsweetened  milk,  a  tin 
of  sugar,  and  a  tin  spoon.  As  he  had  poured  the  tea 
out  of  the  "  kittle  "  without  a  strainer,  the  dose  was 
about  the  consistency  of  boiled  rice  or  pea-soup.  In 
order  to  spare  Tom's  feelings  in  case  his  spirit  is  sticking 
around  as  I  write  this,  I  will  have  to  exercise  preterition 
upon  the  subject  of  my  disposition  of  the  mess. 

As  it  was  getting  dark  and  Tom  said  he  had  some 
chores  to  do,  I  offered  to  wash  dishes.  Tom  disap- 
peared in  the  woods  with  the  ever-present  axe.  In  the 
course  of  twenty  minutes  he  reappeared  with  two  long 
wands  upon  which  were  hung  an  immense  number  of 
tiny  hemlock  boughs.  Not  wishing  to  show  my 
ignorance,  I  kept  quiet  and  watched.  Tom  went  into 
the  tent  and  proceeded  to  stick  the  stems  of  those  short 
boughs  into  the  turf  till  he  had  completely  carpeted  the 

15 


With  Gun     P  Rod  in  Canada 


floor  of  the  tent.  He  placed  them  in  an  overlapping 
position  like  the  shingles  on  a  roof.  When  he  laid  a 
couple  of  sheep-skins  on  the  boughs  and  our  blankets 
over  these,  his  actions  began  to  show  a  glimmer  of 
common  sense.  It  was  the  most  fragrant  and  com- 
fortable bed  it  had  ever  been  my  good  fortune  to  sleep 
upon.  Many  a  time  before  this  experience  I  had  cut 
an  armful  of  evergreen  boughs  and  used  them  for  a 
mattress,  and  had  found  them  wanting  in  everything 
but  holes  and  knotty  limbs.  This  idea  of  cutting  small, 
tender  twigs  of  spruce  or  hemlock  and  sticking  the  butts 
down  into  the  ground,  leaving  the  soft,  springy  ends 
upright,  had  not  occurred  to  me. 

After  Tom  had  made  the  bed  he  began  to  "  gather  " 
a  little  firewood.  I  should  judge  he  cut  half  a  cord  of 
birch  logs.  He  rolled  some  big  stones  on  either  side  of 
our  cooking  fire,  and  about  four  feet  apart,  and  began 
piling  on  the  logs.  This  made  a  long,  high  fire,  and  as 
it  was  hardly  eight  feet  from  the  front  of  our  tent,  was 
wonderfully  comfortable.  It  was  nearly  morning  before 
Tom  had  to  replenish  it. 

The  night  was  frosty,  but  this  camp  was  the  most 
satisfactory  and  luxurious  one  I  had  ever  known  under 
the  stars. 

After  abreakfastof  trout,  flapjacks,  jam,  and"  tea-soup," 
we  packed  our  dunnage  into  the  canoe,  and  started  the 
day  with  an  exhilarating  rush  down  over  Pessquess  Falls. 
That  was  one  of  the  great  moments  of  my  life,  since  it  was 
the  first  time  I  had  ever  run  a  real  rapid  in  a  canoe. 

The  trout  started  biting  right  where  they  left  off 
the  night  before,  and  after  I'd  caught  my  twenty  I  quit 
fishing,  lit  my  pipe,  and  again  mentally  harked  back  to 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  made  comparisons  between 
this  Nova  Scotia  fishing  and  my  experiences  there. 
With  no  horses  to  hobble,  catch,  saddle,  and  pack; 

16 


Trout-Fishing  East  versus  West 

no  thought  of  lame  horses,  tired  horses,  nor  hungry 
horses;  not  much  concern  as  to  the  weight  to  be  carried, 
pack-ropes  to  be  adjusted,  sore  backs  to  be  rested,  nor 
where  we  would  find  wood,  water,  and  feed,  I  concluded 
that  the  Nova  Scotia  method  of  trout-fishing  compared 
most  favourably  with  the  modus  operandi  in  Utah.  And 
it  is  much  nicer  to  sit  down  to  lunch  with  unbidden 
blackflies  than  to  harbour  as  a  guest  a  possible  rattle- 
snake. 

A  pleasant  breeze  blowing  upstream  kept  the  winged 
pests  away,  but  there  were  still  two  flies  in  the  ointment — 
two  evil  spirits  in  this  fisherman's  Paradise :  the  powerful 
tea  and  the  lack  of  coffee. 

After  running  more  rapids,  we  paddled  out  of  the 
mouth  of  the  Kejimkujik  River  and  across  the  over- 
flowed meadows  to  Lowe's  Landing  on  the  shores  of 
Lake  Rossignol.  I  was  still  thinking  about  that  coffee. 

This  lack  notwithstanding,  I  was  delighted  with  the 
trip,  and  fully  made  up  my  mind  that,  in  spite  of  the 
deplorable  tea  mania  of  the  natives,  I  was  going  to  build 
a  good  camp  in  this  neck  of  the  woods. 

A  few  years  later  my  plans  developed.  To-day  in 
the  larder  of  that  camp  is  always  a  bulky,  hospitable 
canister  of  the  best  Mocha  and  Java. 


Nova  Scotia  Trout-Fishing 
in  September 

A  LITTLE  legal  business  in  connection  with  a 
gold-mine  in  Nova  Scotia  unexpectedly  detained 
Walter  and  me  in  Bridgewater.  It  was  beautiful 
mid-September  weather.  Sitting  in  the  office  of  Clark's 
Hotel  one  evening,  the  conversation  turned  to  trout- 
fishing.  One  of  the  gentlemen  entertaining  us  with 
local  history  mentioned  the  wonderful  trout-fishing  at 
Indian  Gardens.  As  Walter's  hobby  was  trouting,  he 
pricked  up  his  ears  with  a  large  "  P."  It  seems  that 
Indian  Gardens  was  situated  at  the  outlet  of  Lake 
Rossignol,  the  largest  lake  in  Nova  Scotia,  and,  as  the 
name  implies,  was  the  summer  camping-ground  for  the 
Micmacs.  The  obliging  native  mentioned  such  famous 
trout-fishing  places  as  the  "  Screecher,"  "  Trout  Brook," 
"  Fifth  Lake  Run,"  "  Shelburne  River,"  and  the 
"  Hopper."  All  this  was  Greek  to  me,  but  in  spite 
of  the  uncanny  names,  according  to  our  informant,  the 
trout  infested  these  places  in  large  numbers. 

Walter  suggested  that  we  go  up  and  try  this  fishing. 
Upon  our  acquaintance's  advice,  we  telephoned 
Mr.  Kempton,  the  proprietor  of  the  Alton  House  in 
Caledonia,  a  little  town  thirty  miles  from  Bridgewater, 
on  the  Halifax  and  South-Western  Railway.  He  said 
that  if  we  would  come  up  on  the  train  the  next  evening 
he  would  procure  a  guide  by  the  name  of  Joe  Patterson, 
who  had  a  boat,  tent,  blankets,  etc.,  to  chaperon  us 
around  the  Rossignol  watershed. 

18 


Nova  Scotia  Trout- Fishing 

As  Walter  never  travelled  without  his  fishing  tackle, 
all  he  had  to  do  was  pack  his  bag  and  go.  I  was  ready- 
enough  to  go,  but  had  no  tackle.  I  was  contemplating 
borrowing  some,  when  Walter  told  me  to  come  into  his 
room  and  look  over  his.  Perhaps  he  would  have  enough 
for  two.  Upon  an  examination  of  his  outfit  I  judged 
he  had  enough  for  four.  At  any  rate  he  had  two  y-J- 
foot  3^-ounce  rods,  two  9-foot  5-ounce  rods;  two  or  three 
kinds  of  folding  combination  dip-nets;  two  or  three 
boxes  full  of  reels,  leaders,  lines,  spoon-hooks,  spinners, 
bait-hooks,  etc.,  and  two  books  of  flies,  either  of  which 
was  as  large  as  a  family  Bible.  This  matter  settled,  we 
entrained  the  next  day  for  Caledonia. 

Here  we  met  Old  Joe,  the  guide,  who  had  already  sent 
his  boat  and  gear  in  a  truck-wagon  out  to  Lowe's  Land- 
ing; this  was  twelve  miles  from  Caledonia,  and  was  to  be 
the  point  of  embarkation.  Next  morning  we  drove  to 
the  lake  behind  a  fine  spanking  pair  of  bay  mares  owned 
by  the  hotel  proprietor.  It  was  a  beautiful  day,  warm 
and  calm,  but  snappy  enough  after  a  night's  frost  to  be 
exhilarating. 

We  inspected  the  commissary  department,  and  agreed 
with  Joe  that  we  had  supplies  sufficient  for  a  week. 
Joe's  "  wangun,"  or  grub-box,  was  as  large  as  a  carpenter's 
old-fashioned  tool-chest,  and  it  was  filled  to  the  brim 
with  home-made  bread,  bacon,  canned  beans,  tongue, 
beef,  milk,  fruit,  etc.  Besides  these,  he  had  a  peck  of 
fine  Gravenstein  apples  and  a  peck  of  potatoes.  He 
evidently  was  fathering  the  wish  that  we  would  change 
our  plans  and  stay  three  weeks  instead  of  one. 

Joe's  boat  was  a  sixteen-foot  lapstreak  row-boat  with 
plenty  of  beam  and  lots  of  sheer,  and  could  carry  its 
load  of  three  men  and  supplies  quite  safely.  After 
slipping  the  craft  into  the  water,  Walter  hinted  that  he 
was  hungry,  so  Joe  bustled  around  and  built  a  fire,  and, 

'9 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 

as  he  expressed  it,  "  cooked  the  kittle."  By  the  time 
we  had  cleaned  up  the  first  offering  of  our  new  guide's 
hospitality  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  that  we  approved 
of  his  viands. 

We  both  noticed  that  Joe  ate  but  lightly  of  his  own 
sumptuous  fare.  Solicitously  remarking  upon  this,  we 
learned  that  he  was  suffering  from  indigestion.  Walter 
offered  him  a  bottle  of  soda  mints,  which  Joe  refused 
politely,  explaining  that  he  had  a  much  better  cure  for 
his  malady  if  he  could  catch  "  one  "  ! 

"  Catch  what  ?"  Walter  asked. 

"  Frog,"  said  Joe. 

Thinking  he  referred  to  frogs'  legs,  of  which  we  both 
were  fond,  we  agreed  that  a  mess  of  fried  frogs'  legs 
for  supper  would  be  an  acceptable  delicacy. 

"  I  don't  mean  frogs'  legs,"  drawled  Joe.  "  I  mean 
whole  frogs." 

"  Whole  frogs !"  we  exclaimed  together.  "  How  do 
you  cook  them  ?" 

"  Don't  cook  'em,"  explained  Joe.  "  Eat  'em  raw — 
alive." 

Not  wishing  to  hurt  the  old  fellow's  feelings,  and  in 
consideration  of  his  evident  effort  to  entertain  us,  we 
restrained  our  inclination  to  derisively  call  him  a  liar, 
so  merely  smiled  non  -  committally.  Joe  detected  the 
gleam  of  doubt  in  our  eyes. 

"  You  fellers  don't  believe  it,  I  reckon." 

I  accepted  his  challenge,  and  admitted  I  had  seen 
such  marvels  in  side-shows.  Without  wishing  to  doubt 
his  word,  I  would  like  to  see  him  demonstrate  his  fondness 
for  live  frogs;  and  further,  warming  to  the  subject,  told 
him  that  it  would  be  worth  just  five  dollars  apiece  to  me 
for  each  and  every  frog  he  would  swallow.  Joe  imme- 
diately borrowed  one  of  Walter's  small  dip-nets,  and 
wading  along  the  edge  of  the  lake  soon  captured  a  frog 

20 


Nova  Scotia  Trout-Fishing 

about  three  inches  long.  He  returned  the  net  to  Walter, 
took  the  frog  by  his  hind-legs  and  gulped  him  down. 
I  was  paralyzed  and  Walter  had  a  sort  of  sea-sick  ex- 
pression. Joe  pocketed  my  five-dollar  bill  with  com- 
placency. I  was  relieved  to  note  that  he  made  immediate 
preparations  for  continuing  our  journey  instead  of 
hunting  more  frogs. 

He  rowed  us  across  the  end  of  the  lake  to  Trout  Brook, 
a  distance  of  five  miles.  This  was  to  be  our  first  tenting- 
place.  To  get  to  our  objective  we  had  to  row  out 
through  the  Narrows  between  Lowe's  Lake  and  Lake 
Rossignol,  then  among  some  beautiful  wooded  islands, 
until  we  rounded  a  long  peninsula  known  as  Wildcat 
Point.  Passing  this  point,  we  were  in  the  big  open  part 
of  Lake  Rossignol  proper.  Joe  pointed  to  some  miniature 
islands  about  three  miles  away  near  the  western  shore 
which  marked  the  mouth  of  Trout  Brook.  I  was  sitting 
in  the  stern,  paddling  and  steering  as  Joe  directed. 
Meanwhile  Walter  had  rigged  up  two  rods,  and  began 
to  give  us  an  exhibition  of  off-hand  fly-casting.  Believe 
me,  that  boy  was  "  some  "  artist  with  the  fly-rod  !  He 
could  do  anything  with  it  but  make  it  write  its  own  name 
and  sit  up  and  beg  ! 

While  Joe  made  camp  in  a  grove  of  multi-coloured 
birches  at  the  mouth  of  Trout  Brook,  Walter  and  I  took 
the  fishing-rods  and  dip-nets,  and  walked  along  the  edge 
of  the  meadow  to  try  for  fish.  It  was  a  still-water 
brook  and  comparatively  free  from  bushes  on  its  margin. 
Walter  caught  two  nice  trout  almost  immediately;  then 
I  caught  one;  then  Walter  caught  three  or  four  more 
while  I  was  landing  my  second.  By  sundown  Walter 
had  a  dozen  fish  and  I  had  four.  We  had  been  casting 
barely  an  hour.  When  we  got  back  to  the  tent  we 
compared  notes  and  fish.  My  four  weighed  as  much  as 
his  twelve.  I  was  using  a  good-sized  Parmachene  Belle 

21 


With  Gun  ft?  Rod  in  Canada 


as  a  tail  fly,  and  I  had  caught  all  my  fish  upon  that.  He 
was  using  tiny,  dark-coloured  midget  flies,  which  evi- 
dently the  big  trout  would  not  deign  to  notice. 

Joe  had  everything  fixed  comfortably  for  the  night 
and  supper  nearly  ready  when  we  joined  him.  In 
addition  to  the  food  already  in  preparation,  we  cleaned, 
cooked,  and  ate  eleven  of  the  trout. 

The  usual  story-telling  contest  started  directly  after 
supper.  First  Walter  told  a  story.  It  was  good.  Joe 
and  I  had  a  good,  hearty  laugh  over  it.  Then  Joe  told 
one,  and  Walter  and  I  laughed.  Then  I  told  one,  and 
Joe  and  Walter  laughed.  Then  Walter  told  another, 
and  I  began  to  laugh,  when  Joe  interrupted  by  starting 
to  tell  one  himself.  Making  a  violent  effort  to  readjust 
my  sense  of  humour  to  appreciate  Joe's  new  effort,  I  was 
just  about  to  demonstrate  by  the  usual  risibilities,  when 
Walter  butted  in  with  another.  With  his  climax  hardly 
reached,  Joe  began  a  new  tale,  while  Walter  waited 
impatiently  on  his  toes,  as  it  were,  to  launch  his  next 
side-splitter.  Without  waiting  for  a  laugh,  Joe  told 
one,  then  Walter,  then  Joe,  ad  infinitum.  With  a  view 
toward  saving  motions  in  labour,  my  face  adopted  a 
frozen  grin.  Finally  I  called  a  halt. 

"  Hold  on,  boys !  There's  a  new  rule  in  this  camp. 
Hereafter  and  from  now  on  and  forevermore,  and  as 
long  as  this  trip  lasts,  there  must  be  an  interim  between 
stories  of  at  least  one  minute  to  give  the  audience  a 
chance  to  laugh." 

This  remark  brought  them  both  up  with  a  round  turn. 
They  looked  crestfallen.  They  were  so  enthralled  and 
intoxicated  with  their  own  prowess  as  raconteurs  that  it 
took  quite  an  appreciable  time  for  them  to  come  to  a 
realization  of  the  absurdity  of  the  situation.  Walter 
intimated  that  I  was  envious  of  their  remarkable  ability. 
Joe's  excuse  was  that  Walter  was  the  first  "  sport  " 

22 


Nova  Scotia  Trout-Fishing 

he  had  ever  met  in  ten  years  that  had  told  him  any  new 
stories. 

At  that  time  I  was  not  cognizant  of  the  fact  that 
professional  guides  probably  hear  more  new  stories  than 
any  men  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Feeling  rather  pleased 
at  my  apparent  success  in  damming  this  lauwine  of 
words,  in  which  I  seemed  unable  to  take  part,  I  smoked 
my  pipe  in  fancied  security  while  Joe  replenished  the 
fire.  The  new  blaze  seemed  to  stimulate  my  own 
narrating  proclivities,  and  I  found  myself  confidentially 
telling  Walter,  just  loud  enough  for  Joe  to  hear,  about 
how  much  money  I  had  made  in  Wall  Street.  I  talked 
quite  a  long  time  to  a  very  silent  and  unresponsive 
audience.  Finally,  running  down  and  my  story  sort 
of  petering  out,  as  a  story  will  under  such  adverse  con- 
ditions, Joe  drawled: 

"  I  made  a  lot  of  money  once." 

"  How  much  did  you  make,  Joe  ?"  I  asked  con- 
descendingly. 

"  Five  dollars  a  minute,"  he  asserted. 

"  Five  dollars  a  minute !"  I  exclaimed.  "  How'd 
you  do  it  ?" 

"  Swallowin'  live  frogs !"  said  Joe. 

Walter  was  mean  enough  to  laugh,  and  Joe  was 
impudent  enough  to  join  him. 

The  following  morning  Joe  rowed  us  over  as  far  as  the 
Screecher  Carry,  skirting  en  route  the  south-western 
shore  of  Lake  Rossignol.  I  trolled  with  a  live  minnow 
for  bait,  and  picked  up  several  good-sized  trout  on  the 
way.  Walter  tossed  an  astonishingly  long  line,  with  the 
aid  of  an  inimitable  flip  of  the  wrist,  behind  every  likely- 
looking  rock  or  log  that  we  passed,  and  hooked  fish  in 
the  most  unexpected  places.  He  was  remarkably  skilful 
at  hooking  them  "  on  the  wing."  The  speed  and 
accuracy  with  which  he  was  able  to  time  the  little  jerk 

23 


With  Gun     p  Rod  in  Canada 


that  sets  the  hook  in  the  fish's  mouth  was  amazing,  and 
led  to  rather  an  interesting  adventure. 

Walter  made  a  long  cast,  and  as  the  line  straightened 
out  the  flies  spread  and  paused  an  instant  before  dropping 
lightly  on  the  water.  A  big  trout  jumped  to  meet  the 
middle  fly  while  it  was  still  in  the  air.  Walter  either 
saw  or  sensed  the  rise,  and  twitched  his  line  when  the 
trout  reached  the  apex  of  his  leap  ;  but  the  trout  missed, 
the  end  of  the  leader  wrapped  around  his  tail,  and  the 
hook  on  the  end  fly  hooked  in  turn  around  the  leader, 
making  a  slip-noose  about  the  trout's  tail.  The  fight 
was  on.  I  should  judge  Walter  was  fully  ten  minutes 
landing  that  fish. 

It  was  four  miles  to  the  Screecher,  and  although  we  had 
a  head  wind,  Joe  did  not  seem  to  mind  in  the  least 
rowing  his  heavy  cargo. 

The  Screecher  we  found  upon  landing  was  a  short 
brook  connecting  the  Fourth  Lake  to  Lake  Rossignol,  and 
the  portage  from  one  lake  to  the  other  was  not  over  one 
hundred  feet.  Its  gruesome  name  was  given  on  account 
of  the  screeching  sound  the  wind  made  passing  through 
the  opening  in  the  trees  over  the  brook.  On  the  west 
side  of  the  stream  is  a  private  sporting-camp  and  an 
Indian  burying-ground.  Joe  said  the  Indians  dug  the 
graves  and  lined  them  with  beach  stones,  of  which  there 
were  an  abundance  upon  the  shore.  The  giant  of  the 
Micmac  tribe  is  buried  in  this  spot,  and  his  skeleton 
exhumed  by  the  natives  was  said  to  be  seven  and  a  half 
feet  long.  Tradition  has  it  that  this  giant  was  a  wonder- 
ful skater  and  leaper,  and  broke  his  back  while  jumping 
over  seven  blankets  laid  end  to  end  on  the  ice. 

We  caught  the  limit  in  the  Screecher  brook  that 
afternoon,  and  had  another  wonderful  night  with  camp- 
fire,  moonlight,  and  bough  bed.  The  latter  was  made 
of  hemlock  "  feathers."  The  next  morning  Joe  rowed 

24 


Nova  Scotia  Trout-Fishing 

us  down  to  the  Hopper,  some  five  or  six  miles  from  the 
Screecher.  The  Hopper  is  in  reality  the  mouth  of  the 
Third  Lake  on  Lake  Rossignol  proper.  As  its  name 
implies,  the  outlet  is  shaped  like  a  long  narrow  hopper 
or  funnel,  through  which  all  the  waters  of  the  great 
Mersey  watershed  have  to  pour  on  their  way  to  the  sea. 
A  tiny  island  divides  the  Hopper,  making  two  swift 
streams,  where  we  found  excellent  fishing.  We  camped 
upon  the  southern  side,  our  tent  being  pitched  within 
fifteen  feet  of  the  water. 

The  first  morning  after  our  arrival  at  this  picturesque 
spot  Walter  told  us  a  story  about  a  famous  fisherman 
playing  and  landing  an  expert  swimmer  with  his  trout 
rod.  I  laughed  at  the  idea.  Walter  challenged  me  to 
take  the  part  of  the  fish  while  he  plied  the  rod.  The 
water  was  quite  warm  and  beautifully  clear,  so  I  stripped 
off.  Tying  a  handkerchief  around  my  neck,  I  was  ready. 
Walter  selected  a  heavy  fly,  reel,  and  line  I  had  not 
before  noticed,  and  one  of  his  nine-foot  tournament  rods. 
The  fly  was  hooked  in  the  handkerchief  around  my  neck. 
I  agreed  not  to  touch  the  line  with  my  hands.  When  all 
was  ready,  much  to  Joe's  amusement,  I  waded  out  to  the 
edge  of  the  Hopper  pond  in  still  water,  and  then  leisurely 
swam  straight  out  until  the  line  broke.  Walter  wasn't 
satisfied,  so  I  tried  it  again  with  the  same  result. 

"  If  I  had  my  salmon  gear  here  you  couldn't  do  that," 
quoth  Walter.  Nor  could  I. 

It  took  the  rest  of  the  trip  for  Walter  to  explain  why 
he  couldn't  put  strain  enough  on  his  line  to  tire  me 
before  I  reached  the  end  and  broke  it. 

The  second  night  at  the  Hopper  an  old  Micmac  Indian 
paddled  up  in  a  bark  canoe.  He  and  Old  Joe  were 
friends,  so  he  accepted  our  hospitality.  This  Indian 
told  us  wonderful  stories  of  his  ability  in  moose-hunting, 
fishing,  and  guiding.  The  next  morning  after  he  left 

25 


With  Gun  ft?  Rod  in  Canada 


Joe  admitted  that  he  was  a  tolerable  guide,  but  un- 
reliable. To  point  his  opinion  the  old  woodsman 
related  the  following: 

"  Labrador  took  a  feller  from  Boston  out  moose- 
huntin';  one  night  they  tented  right  on  this  spot.  In 
the  mornin'  the  Injun  called  from  that  big  rock  there." 
He  pointed  to  an  enormous  boulder  that  guarded  one 
side  of  the  outlet.  "  Now  the  man  from  Boston  had 
read  about  moose  callin',  but  had  never  heard  it.  The 
Indian  suspicioned  that  he  had  a  well-to-do  greenhorn, 
and  wishin'  to  drag  out  the  trip  as  long  as  possible,  was 
in  no  hurry  to  get  him  a  moose.  Just  about  sunrise 
Labrador  took  his  moose  call  and  his  '  sport '  up  on  that 
there  big  rock,  and  called  like  a  cow  moose  all  right,  but 
ended  each  call  with  a  loud  squawk.  After  he'd  done 
this  several  times  his  *  sport '  began  to  mistrust  that 
something  wasn't  just  right,  so  he  asked  the  Injun  what 
he  made  that  loud  squawk  for  at  the  end  of  each  call. 
1  Me  call-um  big  fat  moose  that-away,'  said  the  Injun. 
1  Well,  you  leave  that  squawk  off  and  call-um  darn 
skinny  ones,  after  this,  you  old  rascal,'  the  *  sport '  told 
him." 

Joe  then  went  on  to  explain  how  Labrador  took  the 
hint,  and  called  up  a  fine  bull  to  the  edge  of  the  Hopper 
pond,  where  the  man  from  Boston  killed  him  with  one 
shot.  To  prove  the  story,  Joe  took  us  over  across  the 
pond  and  showed  us  the  old  bones. 

We  broke  camp  after  two  nights  at  the  Hopper,  and 
rowed  down  through  the  Second  and  First  Lakes  to 
Indian  Gardens,  passing  "  Cobby  Ell,"  the  "  Old  Sow," 
"  Umbrell,"  and  Cowie's  Bay.  It  was  six  miles.  All 
through  this  trip  I  marvelled  at  the  ease  with  which 
Joe  pulled  the  heavily  loaded  boat.  In  these  days  of 
cruising  around  Lake  Rossignol  in  a  motor-boat  one 
seldom  runs  across  a  guide  who  would  undertake  such 

26 


Nova  Scotia  Trout- Fishing 

a  trip  in  a  row-boat.  Joe  was  about  six  feet  two  inches 
in  height,  with  thick  chest  and  shoulders,  but  otherwise 
slenderly  built.  His  wrists  were  tremendously  bony 
and  strong,  and  his  hands  like  the  claws  of  some  bird  of 
prey.  Without  any  apparent  effort  on  his  part,  the 
big  ash  oars  would  bend  at  every  stroke,  while  Joe  told 
stories  or  sang  chanteys.  He  had  a  finely  shaped  and 
massive  head,  a  shock  of  canescent  hair  and  a  long 
moustache.  He  was  of  Norse  descent  and  reminded 
one  of  an  old  Viking. 

At  Indian  Gardens  there  was  a  dam  which  backed  the 
water  up  over  the  First  and  Second  Lakes,  into  Lake 
Rossignol,  forming  the  largest  sheet  of  fresh  water  in 
the  province.  Fine  old  oak-trees,  several  acres  of 
greensward,  and  a  swift  curving  river  complete  the 
picture.  Pitching  our  tent,  we  had  lunch  and  went 
fishing  below  the  dam.  Walter  caught  seventy  odd 
fish  that  afternoon,  throwing  back  all  those  over  the 
limit  of  twenty.  Not  being  as  ardent  a  fisherman  as 
my  camp-mate,  I  was  satisfied  with  the  limit,  and  induced 
Joe  to  run  me  down  through  a  series  of  rapids  below 
the  dam.  Going  upstream  after  this  exhilarating  coast, 
Joe  again  demonstrated  his  ability  as  a  boatman.  He 
stood  in  the  stern  with  a  long  pike-pole,  and  poled  the 
boat  up  against  the  roaring  water  with  surprising  ease. 
Walter  fished  with  waders  on  while  we  were  amusing 
ourselves  in  the  rapids. 

After  one  night  at  the  Gardens  we  started  back  for 
Lowe's  Landing,  our  point  of  departure,  twelve  miles 
away.  We  passed  some  attractive  wooded  islands  in 
the  First  Lake.  Learning  from  Joe  that  they  were 
Crown  lands,  Waltei  gave  our  guide  the  money  to  apply 
to  the  Crown  Land  Office  for  a  grant  of  one  of  them. 
Joe  was  to  hold  it  in  trust  for  Walter,  and  the  former 
still  has  it. 

27 


With  Gun      >  Rod  in  Canada 


We  made  the  Hopper  for  lunch.  It  clouded  up,  so 
we  hurried  to  get  on  our  way.  Quite  a  breeze  had  sprung 
up  from  the  north-east,  and  this  meant  a  head  wind  on 
the  big  lake.  By  the  time  we  had  left  the  protection 
of  the  islands  and  were  skirting  the  east  shore  of  Lake 
Rossignol,  we  were  bucking  a  heavy  sea  with  wind  and 
rain.  With  Joe  rowing,  me  paddling,  and  Walter 
cheering  us  on,  we  made  fair  headway.  There  was  a 
narrow  channel  running  behind  Bear  Island,  and  we 
succeeded  in  making  this  and  getting  a  little  shelter  from 
the  wind  and  sea.  From  the  north-eastern  end  of  Bear 
Island  to  Lowe's  Lake  was  a  two-mile  pull,  and  we  had  a 
pretty  tough  time.  Without  a  very  seaworthy  boat  and 
an  unusual  oarsman  we  could  not  have  attempted  it. 
Safely  in  the  shelter  of  the  land  at  the  mouth  of  Lowe's 
Lake  we  paused  for  breath.  It  was  here  that  we  met 
Joe's  brother  just  starting  off  on  a  moose-hunt  in  his 
boat.  Among  other  supplies  he  carried  a  gallon  jug 
of  forty-over-proof  rum.  If  ever  wet,  tired  men  needed 
a  drink  it  was  right  at  that  moment.  "  Rich  "  tendered 
the  jug,  and  we  in  turn  tendered  our  grateful  and  heart- 
felt thanks. 

From  the  entrance  to  Lowe's  Lake  to  the  landing  was 
only  a  mile,  and  we  made  it  in  jig-time.  Joe  cut  some 
dry  pitch  pine  out  of  an  old  stump  and  built  a  roaring 
fire.  It  was  still  raining.  We  pitched  the  tent,  and 
then  Joe  did  something  I  had,  up  to  that  time,  never  seen 
done  before.  He  built  a  smudge  right  in  the  tent  and 
closed  the  flaps.  In  twenty  minutes  the  ground  beneath 
the  tent  was  bone  dry.  He  then  raked  out  the  smudge 
and  spread  the  tanned  horse-hide  which  he  used  for  a 
ground  cloth,  hair  up.  This  made  us  quite  comfortable. 

While  Walter  and  I  were  changing  our  wet  clothes 
in  the  heat  of  the  roaring  fire,  built  within  six  feet  of  the 
front  of  the  tent,  Joe  was  packing  the  trout.  As  near  as 

28 


Nova  Scotia  Trout- Fishing 

we  could  estimate,  we  had  caught  between  two  hundred 
and  fifty  and  three  hundred  fish.  We  had  eaten  a  great 
many  and  had  thrown  back  many  others  unhurt.  Joe 
packed  something  over  a  hundred  in  moss  in  a  large  pack- 
basket. 

It  rained  all  night,  but  we  were  contented  and  warm. 
The  next  morning  the  teams  arrived  to  take  us  out. 
Upon  casting  up  the  results  of  our  trip,  we  concluded 
that  our  original  informant  about  the  fine  trout-fishing 
in  the  Rossignol  district  had  not  overstated  the  facts. 


29 


Worms 

A  the  migratory  birds  flock,  cackle,  and  feed  to- 
gether for  the  great  flight  to  the  South  in  the 
fall,  so  every  spring  do  the  skilful  and  migratory 
fishermen  gather  around  the  club  tables  in  New  York  to 
cackle  and  feed  while  planning  their  vernal  and  pisca- 
torial adventures.  Whether  their  skill  lies  in  the  way 
they  do  it  or  the  way  they  tell  it,  is  a  secret  known  only 
to  many  close-mouthed  and  wise-eyed  old  guides  who 
hibernate  in  the  outposts  of  civilization  while  recuperating 
from  the  arduous  labours  pertaining  to  their  professions, 
which  consist  largely  of  baiting  hooks  for  fly-fishermen, 
and  of  accepting  the  lions'  shares  of  their  employers' 
winter  earnings. 

Three  talented  and  empkical  lovers  of  the  dry  fly 
and  the  "  wet  "  story  were  outdoing  each  other  in  their 
attempts  to  entertain,  with  the  aid  of  cocktails  and  fish 
tales,  a  dandified  old  party.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
the  old  party  (whom  for  the  sake  of  brevity  we  will 
henceforth  call  O.  P.)  absorbing  their  drinks,  but  whether 
their  stories  "  took  "  or  not  is  left  for  the  reader  to 
decide.  He  was  polite  and  listened  attentively,  thereby 
satisfactorily  playing  the  part  allotted  to  him  by  his 
triumvirate  of  hosts.  After  nodding  "  Yes "  to  the 
waiter  many  times  and  nodding  appreciatively  to  his 
hosts  innumerable  times  at  the  culmination  of  each  story, 
he  timidly  ventured  with  a  deprecating  air: 

"  Gentlemen,  I  consider  it  a  privilege  to  have  had  the 
honour  of  being  entertained  by  three  such  patently 
experienced  fishermen.  The  value  of  the  information 

30 


Worms 

you  have  given  me  has  been  exceeded  only  by  the  gracious 
way  in  which  you  have  taken  me  to  your  bosoms,  as  it 
were,  and  admitted  me  into  the  secrets  of  your  select 
fraternity.  As  a  slight  return  for  your  kindness  I  will, 
with  your  permission,  impart  to  you  a  rather  remarkable 
experience  of  my  own." 

With  scarcely  concealed  about-to-be-bored  expressions 
on  their  faces,  they  condescendingly  indicated  their 
willingness  to  listen. 

O.  P.  impressively  continued: 

"  A  matter  of  twenty  or  more  years  ago  I  was  attached 
to  a  State  fish-hatchery.  Among  other  duties,  I  tabu- 
lated and  kept  track  of  various  lakes  and  ponds  where 
our  institution  released  the  fry  of  game  fish.  In  checking 
over  a  list  I  was  interested  to  note  that,  some  years  before, 
a  Tammany  politician  had  succeeded  in  getting  five 
hundred  thousand  lake-trout  fry  placed  in  one  of  the 
ponds  in  Central  Park." 

He  paused,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  noting  that  he  had  the 
close  attention  of  his  auditors,  proceeded: 

"  Not  very  long  ago  I  read  in  a  sporting  magazine 
that  the  old  institution  I  had  served  was  being  closed 
down.  I  happened  to  remember  the  incident  of  the 
fry  that  had  been  deposited  in  the  Park.  It  was  in 
the  month  of  May,  and  that  year  I  had  been  much 
disappointed  that  business  had  prevented  my  annual 
fishing  trip  to  Lake  Rossignol,  Nova  Scotia." 

Again  he  paused  and  apologetically  went  on : 

"  Perhaps  you  gentlemen  did  not  know  that  I  had 
done  a  little  fly-fishing  in  a  small  way  ?" 

He  now  had  the  undivided  interest  of  his  hearers. 
Their  eyes  revealed  an  expression  of  calculating  shrewd- 
ness. Was  it  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  they  had  been 
entertaining  ? 

O.  P.  continued: 

31 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

"  A  preposterous  idea  occurred  to  me.  I  had  a  most 
compelling  temptation  to  investigate  that  pond  with 
my  fly-rod,  and  see  if  peradventure  any  of  those  lake- 
trout  fry  had  developed  and  were  still  alive;  so  one  Sunday 
morning  before  daylight  I  took  my  rod,  and  in  my  run- 
about slipped  up  to  the  Park.  There  was  no  one  about. 
Hastily  assembling  my  tackle,  I  dropped  a  Parmachene 
Beau  into  a  likely-looking  spot  under  the  bank.  There 
was  a  splash  and  a  shower  of  spray  in  the  dim  grey  light 
of  early  dawn.  The  rod  was  all  but  jerked  out  of  my 
hand.  For  fifteen  minutes  I  fought  that  fish  up  and 
down  the  pond,  and  finally  succeeded  in  gaffing  him. 
It  was  an  enormous  lake-trout.  In  the  next  thirty 
minutes  I  caught  three  more;  then,  being  afraid  of 
intruders,  and  the  circulation  becoming  stagnant  in  my 
pedal  extremities,  I  put  the  fish  in  my  car,  and,  in  the 
words  of  the  vulgar  and  unwashed,  '  beat  it.' ' 

Fumbling  in  his  pockets,  he  produced  a  photograph 
of  four  magnificent  lake-trout  reposing  on  the  running 
board  of  an  automobile.  The  jaws  of  the  listeners 
collectively  sagged  in  amazement.  O.  P.  replaced  the 
photograph  and  glanced  at  his  watch;  then,  pleading 
an  engagement,  excused  himself  and  left  the  club-room. 


A  few  days  later,  very  early  in  the  morning,  three 
battered,  bruised,  and  dishevelled  gentlemen,  in  charge 
of  three  equally  disarrayed  cops,  were  lined  up  before  a 
sleepy  desk-sergeant. 

"  What's  the  charge,  Officer  ?"  asked  the  lately 
somnambulant  representative  of  law  and  order  in  New 
York  City. 

A  collection  of  much  tangled  fishing  tackle  and  broken 
rods  were  gingerly  tendered  by  one  of  the  patrolmen 
as  prima  facie  evidence. 

3* 


Worms 

"  Diggin'  and  fishin*  in  the  Park,  sorr,  and  reschistin* 
officers,"  ponderously  declaimed  a  uniformed  son  of  Erin. 

"  Frisk  'em,  MacCoy,"  commanded  the  sergeant. 

A  search  of  the  crestfallen  prisoners  revealed  the 
expected  collection  of  pocket-books,  knives  and  keys, 
watches,  etc.  The  nadir  of  their  humiliation,  however, 
was  reached  only  when  each  was  discovered  to  be  in 
possession  of  a  can  of  Central  Park  worms ! 


33 


Winter  Fly- Fishing  in  Nova  Scotia 

SNOW-BANKS  and  ice  are  not  usually  associated 
with  fly-fishing.      Tradition  to  the  contrary  not- 
withstanding, they  seem  to  collaborate  beautifully 
in  furnishing  sport  for  the  hardy  Nova  Scotians,  and, 
incidentally,  any  others  who  wish  to  cast  a  fly  but  who 
cannot  wait  until  spring. 

The  salmon-fishing  season  opens  February  1st.  If  the 
day  is  reasonably  sunny  and  warm  and  without  wind,  the 
natives  living  upon  the  Medway  River  in  Queen's  County 
get  out  their  rods  and  swing  a  fly  into  their  favourite 
eddy,  providing  Jack  Frost  has  left  it  open.  Their 
outfit  consists  of  a  husky,  home-made  greenheart,  or 
ash,  spliced  rod  fourteen  or  fifteen  feet  long,  and  a 
powerful,  direct-acting  reel,  holding  one  hundred  yards 
of  three-strand,  heavy  line,  to  which  is  attached  an 
eight-  or  nine-foot  home- tied  leader  of  the  very  best 
English  gut,  swinging  a  home-made  red  or  silver-bodied 
fly,  something  over  two  inches  long  and  decorated 
principally  with  a  pheasant  wing.  Their  gaff  is  rabbit- 
wired  to  a  three-foot  handle  with  a  three-inch  steel 
hook,  and  is  as  sharp  as  a  needle. 

As  fishing  at  this  time  of  the  year  is  cold  work,  the 
fisherman's  usual  clothing  is  augmented  by  shoe-packs, 
or  lumberman's  rubbers,  heavy  mittens,  mackinaw,  and 
cap  pulled  well  over  the  ears. 

Often  there  is  so  much  ice  in  the  river  that  the  fishing 
is  all  done  from  the  edge,  and  the  fly  is  cast  downstream 
into  the  water  that  is  too  swift  to  freeze. 

I  describe  the  weather  and  the  winter  environment 

34 


Winter  Fly- Fishing  in  Nova  Scotia 

to  forestall  the  criticism  I  am  sure  will  be  made  by  the 
light-tackle  "  sports  "  upon  reading  the  above  summary 
of  the  heavy  tackle  used  by  the  local  winter  salmon 
fishermen. 

When  the  water  is  open  enough,  canoes  or  punts  are 
launched  from  the  edge  of  the  ice,  and  being  equipped 
with  a  kellick,  or  anchor,  the  fishing  may  be  done  from 
midstream.  To  those  who  are  not  familiar  with  the  art 
of  anchoring  a  canoe  or  boat  in  swift-running  water, 
a  word  of  caution  may  not  be  out  of  place.  Always 
keep  the  bow  or  light  end  of  the  craft  upstream.  The 
anchor  rope  should  pass  through  a  pulley  on  the  bow 
or  a  hole  through  the  stem  of  the  craft.  A  handy  cleat 
may  be  fastened  on  the  after  thwart.  With  this  rig 
it  is  not  necessary  to  go  forward  (with  the  consequent 
danger  involved  in  swift  water)  to  pull  up  the  anchor. 
The  fisherman  can  manipulate  the  anchor  rope  standing 
or  kneeling  near  the  stern.  A  pole  is  in  more  general 
use  as  a  propelling  agent  in  the  Medway  River  than 
either  oars  or  paddles,  as  the  stream  is  very  swift  and 
rocky. 

Most  of  the  casting  is  done  within  a  radius  of  seventy- 
five  feet  of  the  boat.  A  single  large  fly  is  used  as  de- 
scribed above.  This  fly  is  allowed  to  sink  from  a  foot 
to  two  feet  below  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  is  trailed 
gently  back  and  forth  through  the  eddies  and  holes. 
Where  in  the  summer-time  Nova  Scotia  salmon  are 
apt  to  seek  pools  and  eddies  in  comparatively  shallow 
but  very  swift  water,  and  perform  continuous  aviation 
stunts  after  striking,  in  the  winter  they  delight  in  "  aqua- 
ation  "  manoeuvres,  but  seldom  come  out  of  the  water. 

One  salmon  nose-dived  when  he  struck  the  fly,  side- 
slipped, tail-dived,  and  looped  -  the-loop — all  under 
water.  If  he  hadn't  run  out  of  petrol  he'd  be  fighting 
yet.  I  gave  the  powerful  rod  all  the  strain  it  would 

35 


With  Gun     ?  Rod  in  Canada 


stand  to  bring  him  to  the  gaff.  If  there  is  any  fish  in 
existence  of  its  weight  that  can  put  up  a  more  persistent, 
resourceful,  or  cunning  fight  than  a  fifteen-  or  twenty- 
pound  Nova  Scotia  salmon  when  hooked  in  a  six-  or 
seven-mile  current,  it  has  not  been  the  writer's  good 
fortune  to  make  its  acquaintance. 

It  is  also  quite  a  neat  little  trick  to  handle  with  one 
hand  a  fourteen-foot  rod  and  a  fifteen-pound  salmon 
which  is  dragging  back  in  a  six-mile  current,  and  at  the 
same  time  use  the  gaff  with  the  other  hand.  To  add 
to  the  excitement,  the  boat  or  canoe  is  usually  coated 
with  ice  on  the  inside.  By  the  time  you  have  whipped 
the  glittering  silver  trophy  out  of  the  icy  water  and 
landed  him  safely  in  the  boat  you  have  earned  the  right 
to  eat  it  —  and  he  is  pink,  juicy,  rich  meat  from  head  to 
tail. 

As  many  a  salmon  has  been  lost  through  awkward 
gaffing,  a  word  here  might  not  be  amiss  in  regard  to  the 
knock-out  punch  that  has  to  be  delivered  if  one  is  to  be 
a  successful  participant  in  a  finish  fight  with  a  salmon. 

First:  Be  sure  the  fish  is  close  enough  to  reach  with 
the  gaff  before  attempting  to  finish  him. 

Second:  When  you  are  sure  he  is  close  enough,  slip 
the  gaff  under  and  a  little  beyond  him  with  the  point 
of  the  hook  up,  aim  for  the  throat  just  back  of  the  gills  and 
jerk  the  gaff  toward  you.  This  turns  the  salmon  over 
on  his  back,  in  which  position  he  is  practically  helpless. 

Third:  With  a  continuance  of  the  same  motion  that 
has  driven  the  hook  into  the  fish's  throat,  pull  it  toward 
you,  and  at  the  same  time  raise  the  fish  out  of  the  water 
and  flip  him  into  the  boat. 

Fourth:  Be  sure  to  let  your  line  slack  from  the  reel 
as  you  pull  the  fish  in,  otherwise  you  are  liable  to  break 
your  tip. 

Fifth:  Never  try  to  gaff  a  salmon  with  a  downward 

36 


Winter  Fly- Fishing  in  Nova  Scotia 

motion  or  over  the  back.  If  you  do  this,  almost  in- 
variably the  fish  will  turn  and  wind  the  line  around  the 
gaff,  and  you  will  lose  one  or  the  other. 

Before  taking  the  gaff  out  of  the  fish,  kill  it  with  a 
few  taps  from  a  hardwood  stick  just  back  of  the  head. 
More  than  one  salmon  has  suddenly  come  to  life  and 
flapped  out  of  a  boat  because  the  successful  angler  had 
removed  the  gaff  and  was  crowing  over  his  prize  before 
killing  it.  Catching  and  holding  down  a  flopping  salmon 
in  an  ice-coated  canoe  is  just  about  as  easy  and  graceful 
as  doing  a  fox-trot  with  a  greased  pig  on  a  slippery 
ball-room  floor. 

A  "  sport "  really  has  not  earned  his  diploma  as  a 
finished  salmon  fisherman  until  he  has  hooked,  played, 
outguessed,  gaffed,  and  eaten  a  Nova  Scotia  winter 
salmon. 


37 

365069 


Illustrating  the  "Timidity"  of  the 
Nova  Scotia  Black  Bear 

THE  ice-house  at  my  camp  on  Lake  Rossignol  had 
been  broken  into  and  a  half-barrel  of  pork  carried 
away.  The  thief  thoughtfully  left  the  barrel. 

Half  a  dozen  ducks,  tied  together  and  hanging  by  a 
string  from  a  nail  driven  in  the  logs  just  outside  the 
kitchen  door,  had  inadvertently  disappeared. 

Some  blueberry  pies  upon  the  kitchen  table  had  been 
carried  off  overnight  by  way  of  a  much  torn  window- 
screen. 

A  pack-basket  full  of  grub  left  on  the  canoe  landing  in 
the  evening  was  gone  in  the  morning.  This  last  theft 
was  committed  so  boldly  and  so  carelessly  that  the 
thief's  tracks  were  plainly  discernible  in  the  sand  on  the 
shore  of  the  lake,  and  left  no  doubt  in  the  minds  of  the 
observers  that  it  was  a  sizable  she-bear,  accompanied 
by  two  busy  but  trusting  little  cubs,  that  had  been  guilty 
of  this  last  depredation  and  probably  the  previous  ones. 

As  immediate  steps  seemed  necessary  to  prevent 
further  mischief,  a  tempting  pan  of  molasses  was  cun- 
ningly placed  in  a  secluded  nook  behind  a  rock,  but  in 
full  sight  of  a  watcher  ensconced  upon  the  roof  of  the 
cabin.  A  powerful  flash-light  rigged  with  a  trigger 
was  securely  clamped  to  a  near-by  birch  and  aimed 
directly  at  the  bait.  A  trigger  line,  with  one  end  fast 
to  the  light  and  the  other  end  tied  to  a  tree,  was  so 
arranged  that  it  would  be  nearly  impossible  for  an  animal 
the  size  of  a  bear  to  touch  the  aromatic  mess  in  the  pan 

38 


The  Nova  Scotia  Black  Bear 

without  tripping  upon  the  string  and  at  once  being 
discovered  in  a  glaring  spot-light.  The  watchers  upon 
the  roof — who  were  to  take  turns,  sea  fashion,  four  hours 
on  and  four  hours  off — were  supposed  to  drill  any  night 
marauder  that  tripped  over  the  string,  plum  full  of 
holes  with  a  big  old  Snider  rifle. 

The  stage  set,  the  first  watcher  took  his  place,  and 
with  hardly  two  hours  of  his  vigil  completed,  bang  ! 
went  the  old  Snider.  The  cabin  vomited  forth  a 
number  of  eager  reinforcements,  each  with  boots  in  one 
hand  and  gun  in  the  other. 

"  I've  got  him,"  bellowed  a  triumphant  voice  from 
a  black  void  over  the  kitchen  roof. 

"  Got  what  ?" — from  one  of  the  skulking  doubting 
Thomases  below. 

'  The  bear  " — impatiently,  from  the  dusky  heights. 

"  Where  ?  We  don't  see  him  " — from  the  still  sceptical 
reserves. 

Bang  !  the  old  Snider  roared  again. 

"  That  stopped  him.  He  was  crawling  away,  and  I 
had  to  give  it  to  him  again,"  exulted  the  forces  from 
the  fortification  above.  Being  in  desperate  fear  of 
charging  into  their  own  barrage,  the  reserves  up  to  this 
point  had  kept  well  under  the  protection  of  the  walls. 

"  Hold  your  fire,  and  we'll  go  look  him  over,"  ex- 
citedly suggested  one  of  the  infantry  squad. 

Although  the  spot-light  on  the  tree  shone  steadily 
in  the  direction  of  the  pan  of  molasses,  no  huge  quivering 
black  shape  lay  gasping  within  the  radius  of  its  gleam, 
so  with  precautionary  commands  to  the  sharp-shooter 
above,  the  ground  forces  unlimbered  pocket  flash-lights 
and  anticipatingly  stole  forward.  Not  until  they  were 
within  ten  feet  of  the  bait  did  they  discern  a  small  huddled 
spiny  black  mass.  It  was  just  upon  the  edge  of  the  circle 
of  light  and  blinking  stupidly  at  the  unusual  performance. 

39 


With  Gun     ?  Rod  in  Canada 


"  It's  a  porcupine,"  exclaimed  one,  sneeringly. 

"  You're  a  great  hunter,"  joshed  another  to  the  unseen 
watcher  on  the  roof. 

At  this  point  the  "  porky,"  evidently  resenting  the 
contemptuous  tone,  ambled  sulkily  and  indifferently 
away,  quite  unhurt. 

"  Didn't  even  hit  him,"  jeered  a  third. 

"  Well,  what'll  we  do  now  ?  No  bear  will  come  within 
a  mile  of  this  place  to-night  after  all  this  shooting  and 
uproar." 

Being  one  of  the  interested  reserves,  I  suggested  that 
we  had  all  better  turn  in  and  get  a  good  night's  sleep 
and  watch  for  the  bear  the  next  night. 

At  daylight  the  next  morning  the  cook  shook  me  awake 
with  the  startling  information  that  the  pan  of  molasses 
had  been  neatly  licked  dry,  and  the  tracks  of  the  old  bear 
and  cubs  were  plainly  to  be  seen  around  the  rock.  An 
immediate  investigation  discovered  the  spot-light  burn- 
ing brightly  and  the  trigger  line  broken.  As  the  battery 
in  the  flash-light  was  advertised  to  burn  two  hours  with  a 
steady  light,  the  bear  had  evidently  visited  the  spot 
shortly  before  daybreak. 

A  council  of  war  at  the  breakfast  table  was  the  occasion 
for  many  brilliant  schemes  being  suggested  to  trap  the 
bold  and  cunning  thief.  The  result  of  this  powwow  was 
that  we  set  two  big  bear-traps,  carefully  covered  with 
leaves,  in  the  conventional  log  pen  some  hundred  yards 
from  the  camp  in  an  alder  swamp,  and  baited  it  with  a 
"  peeled  "  porcupine  and  garnishings  of  brown  sugar 
and  molasses.  We  also  decided  to  rig  up  a  flash-light 
and  pan  of  molasses  in  the  same  spot  we  had  had  them 
the  previous  night,  and  take  turns  in  watching  and 
listening  from  the  roof  of  the  cook-room. 

That  afternoon,  as  Ralph  and  I  were  driving  the  black 
colt  out  to  Caledonia  for  the  mail,  we  met  two  curious 

40 


The  Nova  Scotia  Black  Bear 

little  bear  cubs  in  the  road,  hardly  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  camp.  We  had  no  gun,  and  as  one  whiff  of  the 
bears  incited  the  colt  into  a  combination  fox-trot,  two- 
step,  and  waltz,  all  on  his  hind-legs,  the  erratic  motions 
of  the  runabout  would  hardly  have  been  conducive  to 
straight  shooting  had  we  been  armed.  Both  of  the 
black  babies  stood  up  and  comically  wiggled  their  round 
ears  at  us  and  then  scooted  into  the  woods,  while  the 
colt  swerved  from  the  road,  jumped  a  fallen  log,  and 
miraculously  landed  back  in  the  road  again  right  side  up 
and  running  like  a  fox.  Fifty  yards  farther  on,  while 
I  was  trying  to  "  saw  "  him  down,  the  colt  left  the  road 
again  and  apparently  tried  to  climb  a  tree.  I  succeeded 
in  thwarting  his  reckless  intention,  and  as  we  flashed 
once  more  over  down  timber  and  rocks,  I  noted  the 
old  she-bear  squatting  among  some  blueberry  bushes 
and  grinning  maliciously  at  our  haste.  Within  half 
a  mile  the  colt  responded  to  my  insistent  admonishings 
and  slowed  down  to  a  walk. 

"  If  you  ever  catch  me  on  this  road  again  without  a 
gun,  it  will  be  because  Fm  under  arrest  and  handcuffed," 
I  sputtered  to  Ralph. 

"  The  way  the  colt  was  jumping  around,  I  was  having 
all  I  could  do  to  stay  in  the  wagon.  We  couldn't  have 
used  a  gun  if  we'd  had  it."  His  attempt  at  mollifying 
me  gave  scant  comfort. 

We  plotted  against  that  bear  during  the  entire  twelve- 
mile  ride  to  town. 

As  it  was  nearly  dark  by  the  time  our  errands  were 
finished  in  Caledonia,  Ralph  and  I  requisitioned  a  double- 
barrelled  shotgun  and  half  a  dozen  shells  loaded  with 
buck-shot  to  accompany  us  upon  our  return  journey  to 
the  lake.  The  last  five  miles  were  entirely  through  un- 
inhabited bush,  so  the  shotgun  and  a  couple  of  powerful 
flash-lights  which  we  carried  gave  us  a  more  secure 

41 


With  Gun     r>  Rod  in  Canada 


feeling  than  if  we  had  gone  unarmed.  The  night  was 
black  and  misty.  When  we  got  to  the  spot  in  the  road 
where  the  bear  had  greeted  us,  the  colt  refused  duty, 
so,  sending  Ralph  ahead  with  the  flash-light  and  the 
shotgun,  I  led  the  frightened  animal  by  the  evil-smelling 
spot.  The  Bruin  odour  was  very  apparent  even  to  my 
not  over-sensitive  nostrils.  I  was  so  intent  on  keeping 
clear  of  the  flying  front  feet  of  the  shying,  snorting  colt, 
that  there  was  no  time  to  give  thought  to  the  bear  if 
she  was  still  in  the  vicinity.  Ralph  had  the  flash-light 
lashed  beneath  his  shotgun  barrels  with  electric  tape, 
and  was  well  fixed  to  repel  an  attack.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  the  possibility  of  running  right  up  against  the  blunder- 
ing cubs,  we  would  have  had  no  fear  of  the  old  bear. 
From  previous  experience  we  were  cognizant  of  the 
fact  that  curious  little  cubs  are  apt  to  investigate  any 
unexpected  noise,  and  then  bawl  their  heads  off  with 
fright  if  they  discover  anything  bigger  than  a  porcupine. 
The  old  she-bear  usually  works  on  the  principle  that  if  a 
cub  whines  it  is  being  maliciously  attacked.  Immediately 
she  comes  a-running,  annihilation  in  her  eye. 

Although  Ralph  and  I  were  both  old-timers  in  the 
woods,  I  venture  to  say  that  he  felt  as  relieved  as  I  did 
when  we  had  the  colt  safely  in  the  barn  and  were  telling 
our  adventures  in  front  of  the  big  fireplace  in  camp. 

Nothing  happened  that  night  nor  the  next.  The 
traps  were  unmolested,  and  the  careful  watch  and  ward 
over  the  pan  of  molasses  disclosed  nothing  startling. 
About  noon  of  the  third  day  two  canoes,  containing 
the  outfit  of  the,  Government  geologist,  paddled  up  to 
our  landing  with  another  bear  story.  It  seems  they 
had  camped  at  the  mouth  of  the  Kejimkujik  River 
the  previous  night,  and  this  morning  one  of  the  number 
had  stumbled  upon  two  cubs,  and  had  been  chased  by 
the  irascible  old  she  into  the  stream  up  to  his  neck. 

42 


The  Nova  Scotia  Black  Bear 

Then  herding  her  cubs  before  her,  she  ambled  off.  We 
had  no  doubt  but  that  it  was  our  bear  family  which  had 
caused  this  break  in  the  routine  work  of  plotting  His 
Majesty's  Gold-Fields. 

A  few  quiet  days  passed  and  we  relaxed  our  vigil, 
dumped  the  pan  of  molasses  well  back  in  the  woods  so 
the  swarm  of  flies  feeding  upon  it  could  conduct  their 
symphony  a  safe  distance  from  camp,  and  concluded 
that  Ursa  Mater  and  Minors  had  sought  other  fields 
of  endeavour. 

We  had  just  settled  down  to  a  pleasant  round  of  trout 
and  bass  fishing  (for  it  was  May),  running  the  rapids, 
swimming  and  Kodaking,  with  the  bears  but  a  faint 
memory  of  several  glorious  days  gone  by,  when  a  white, 
bedraggled,  and  much  irritated  guide  by  the  name 
of  Pat  appeared  at  camp  for  breakfast.  Upon  being 
questioned  as  to  the  cause  of  his  woebegone  appearance 
and  grouchy  disposition,  he  exploded  somewhat  as 
follows : 

"  I  was  going  up  to  repair  my  camp  on  the  Seventh 
Lake,  and  walked  out  from  Caledonia  yesterday  after- 
noon with  a  pack-basket  of  grub  and  some  tools.  I  had 
no  gun.  I  built  my  little  fire  last  night  out  the  road 
a  piece  by  the  brook,  cooked  the  kittle,  and  laid  down. 
Along  about  ten  or  eleven  o'clock  something  began 
rattling  my  dishes,  and  I  woke  up  and  seen  a  bear  not 
ten  feet  away  mauling  my  basket.  There  was  quite  a 
bed  of  live  coals  where  I  had  built  the  fire,  so  I  jumped 
up  and  kicked  some  hot  cinders  at  the  bear.  Instead  of 
running  she  just  circled  around  snarling.  I  didn't  like 
the  way  she  acted,  so  piled  on  some  dry  pine  chips  and 
soon  had  a  big  blaze  goin'.  The  bear  kept  circlin'  and 
growlin',  and  it  took  me  all  my  time  to  keep  the  fire  be- 
tween her  and  me.  Then  I  heard  a  cub  whine  and 
figured  I  better  get  off  en  the  ground;  so  I  watched  my 

43 


With  Gun     P  Rod  in  Canada 


chance  and  run  fer  that  big  beech,  right  by  the  pole 
bridge.  To  say  I  dumb  the  tree  don't  exactly  express 
it.  I  swarmed  up  like  a  monkey  on  a  stick.  With  me 
safely  up  the  tree  the  old  bitch  called  her  cubs,  and  all 
three  sat  right  down  to  lunch.  The  only  things  they 
didn't  eat  were  the  basket,  the  blankets  and  tools. 
A  cub  started  to  play  with  a  sharp  chisel.  I  suppose  he 
liked  the  way  the  firelight  shone  upon  it.  He  must  have 
cut  himself,  for  he  dropped  it  with  a  yelp.  When  he 
hollered  the  old  bear  let  a  growl  out  of  her  and  made  a 
rush  for  my  tree.  I  dumb  so  darn  high  that  I  come 
near  having  to  start  all  over  again.  She  only  came  up 
a  little  ways,  and  then  slid  down  to  take  care  of  her  cubs. 
She  hung  around  with  those  cubs  till  daylight,  and  then 
went  grumbling  down  the  road,  and  I  dumb  down  — 
and  here  I  be." 

During  this  recital  Pat's  audience  had  grown  until 
all  hands  and  the  cook  were  included.  After  expressing 
due  sympathy  we  told  Pat  our  own  experiences  with  the 
bear,  and  then  offered  to  fit  him  out  so  he  could  con- 
tinue his  journey. 

"  Thanks,  men,  but  the  repairs  on  the  shack  can  wait. 
I'm  goin'  bear-huntin'." 

"  Do  you  want  any  help  ?"  we  asked. 

"  The  more  the  merrier,"  he  invited.  "  Only  as 
I'm  goin'  to  supply  the  experience  and  the  dogs,  the 
bounty  ought  to  be  mine  and  the  hide,  too." 

We  readily  agreed  to  this,  and  I  told  Ralph  to  drive 
him  home  to  get  his  dogs.  They  were  back  by  noon 
with  four  dilapidated  but  experienced-looking  hounds. 

Right  after  lunch  Pat  put  the  dogs  on  the  bears' 
tracks  while  we  climbed  up  on  the  roof  with  Pat  to 
listen.  In  twenty  minutes  the  dogs  were  baying  in 
good  shape.  Once  they  got  nearly  out  of  hearing,  and 
then  came  booming  down  within  half  a  mile  of  camp. 

44 


.t^tr*** 


-•  X 


PAT    AND    HIS    BEAR. 


To  face  p.  44 


The  Nova  Scotia  Black  Bear 

"  The  old  girl  has  put  her  cubs  up  a  tree  and  is  trying 
to  lead  the  dogs  off,"  exclaimed  Pat.  "  They'll  heave 
her  to,  pretty  soon  now." 

About  three  o'clock  we  heard  the  dogs  barking  over 
by  the  mouth  of  the  Kejimkujik  River,  and  obeying 
Pat's  command  to  come  on,  took  the  trail  for  that  point 
at  a  sharp  trot,  guns  and  Kodak  in  hand.  A  quarter  of 
an  hour  brought  us  to  the  scene  of  action.  The  hounds 
had  treed  the  big  ugly  brute  in  an  old  oak  down  by  the 
river.  When  she  saw  us  coming  she  dropped  to  the 
ground,  killed  one  of  Pat's  dogs  with  a  slap  of  her  great 
paw,  and  charged. 

Two  quick  shots  from  Pat's  rifle  crumpled  her  up. 
We  had  neither  time  to  shoot  nor  to  take  pictures. 

Beating  off  the  over-anxious  hounds,  Pat  took  com- 
mand of  the  dressing  and  skinning  operations.  Loaded 
with  bear  steaks,  skin  and  nose,  we  trooped  back  to 
camp,  sweating  and  happy.  Pat  immediately  left  on  a 
mysterious  mission,  the  purpose  of  which  was  only 
divulged  when  he  turned  up  in  camp  that  night  with  a 
small  black  hide,  and,  in  a  bag,  a  funny  little  fat,  squirm- 
ing bear  cub. 

"  This  one  took  after  his  mammy,"  said  Pat,  indicating 
the  skin.  "  So  I  had  to  kill  him.  The  other  one  acted 
sort  o*  trustin',  so  I  brung  hum  over  for  you  to  play  with. 
So  long." 

And  away  went  Pat  to  collect  his  bounty. 


45 


For  the  Benefit  of  City  Nimrods 

CONUNDRUM:  Which  is  the  greener — a  country- 
man in  the  city,  or  an  urbanite  in  the  country  ? 
Answer:  Puck,  Judge,  Life,  Punch,  Jack  Canuck, 
and  the  Editor  of  the  Green  Gage  Clarion  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding,  the  city-bred  man  displays  many  more 
verdant  characteristics  while  attempting  to  disport  him- 
self in  and  with  the  appurtenances  of  the  outer  outposts 
of  the  far-flung  civilization  of  this  great  North  American 
continent,  than  does  the  proverbial  hick,  gawk,  lout, 
jay,  or  farmer,  while  taking  in  (or  vice  versa)  one  of  our 
glittering  metropolitan  catch-alls.  And  to  make  matters 
more  difficult  for  the  city  man  seeking  to  learn  country 
ways,  there  is  no  one  outside  of  an  occasional  licensed 
guide  to  restrain  him  and  keep  him  from  getting  drowned, 
shooting  himself  (or  some  innocent  bystander),  or  com- 
mitting some  other  depredation  against  the  public  weal; 
while  the  visiting  farmer  involuntarily  has  the  protection 
of  a  more  or  less  efficient  police  force.  Then  again,  the 
country  cousin  can  move  with  the  crowd,  and  to  a  large 
extent  escape  notice  while  learning  from  observation 
citified  methods  of  living  and  entertainment.  The 
metropolite  in  the  country,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the 
centre  of  attraction  to  his  country  host,  employees  and 
their  friends.  Any  awkward  efforts  he  may  make  to- 
wards learning  about  a  boat,  canoe,  gun,  fishing-rod, 
the  habits  of  wild  animals,  or  even  domestic  cattle,  are 
apt  to  promote  audible  hilarity  among  the  straw-chewing 
spectators,  with  resultant  irritability,  and  perhaps  reckless 
and  desperate  attempts  to  make  good  on  the  part  of  the 

neophyte. 

46 


2.  —  D1DN   T    KNOW    IT  WOULD    TIP    OVER. 


I. — DANGEROUS    CURIOSITY. 


3. — DIDN'T  KNOW  THAT  HAMMER  OK  TRIGGER 
MIGHT  CATCH  ON  THWART  OR  PAINTER. 


4. —  THE  AXE  IS  PATENTLY 
A  PLAYTHING  FOR  THE 
UNINITIATED. 


To  face  p.   46 


For  the  Benefit  of  City  Nimrods 

Paradoxical  as  it  is,  although  always  ready  to  laugh 
and  sometimes  even  sneer  at  rural  people  and  their  habits, 
this  is  the  time  of  the  year  when  nearly  every  city-bred 
person  is  thinking  of  a  vacation  in  the  country. 

And  now,  dear  reader,  if  you  are  anticipating  a  quiet 
week  or  two  in  a  country  boarding-house,  do  not  read 
another  word  of  this  story;  but  if  you  are  an  active  being 
with  proclivities  for  learning  the  ways  of  the  woods, 
streams,  guides  and  other  wild  things — read  and  mentally 
digest.  The  matter  hereinafter  contained  will  not 
take  up  any  room  in  your  cerebral  cavity,  and  it  is  more 
than  likely  that  one  or  two  of  the  following  words  of 
caution  may  occur  to  you  at  a  crucial  moment,  and 
prevent  a  situation  that  might  make  you  ridiculous,  or 
precipitate  you  into  real  danger. 

Twenty  years  of  engineering,  hunting,  fishing,  guiding, 
sailing,  etc.,  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  and  from 
Hudson  Bay  to  the  Gulf,  have  convinced  me  that  a  gun 
and  a  canoe  are  the  two  most  frequent  sources  of  danger 
to  the  amateur.  It  would  be  arduous  to  attempt  to 
make  a  list  of  all  the  dangerous  acts  to  be  avoided  by 
visitors  in  the  wilds  on  their  first  outing.  It  would 
probably  be  too  long  to  read  in  a  lifetime.  Such  a 
document  might  be  compiled  by  the  same  efficiency 
engineer  who  was  employed  by  one  of  the  large  railroad 
companies  to  standardize  the  necessary  shop  operations 
used  in  repairing  a  wrecked  freight  car.  As  no  two  cars 
were  damaged  in  the  same  way,  the  engineer  thought 
it  would  be  quite  an  expensive  job  to  undertake.  The 
company  told  him  to  go  ahead  just  the  same.  He 
found  that  it  took  78,000  standardized  operations  on 
file  in  the  company's  office  to  have  them  properly 
equipped  with  rules  by  which  to  repair  any  wrecked 
car.  Now,  I  am  convinced  that  78,000  new  ways  for 
wrecking  the  human  body  are  devised  by  vacationists 

47 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

each  summer,  to  say  nothing  of  canoes,  tents,  cars,  and 
scenery.  Obviously  I  cannot  hope  to  cover  the  entire 
field,  so  let  us  localize  a  characteristic  background  for 
your  outing,  and  specify  some  typical  and  easily-to-be- 
avoided  errors  appertaining  thereto. 

We  will  presume  that  you  are  staying  in  a  sporting 
camp  on  Lake  Rossignol,  Nova  Scotia.  (It  might  as 
well  be  Maine,  the  Adirondacks,  or  California.)  You 
are  on  your  first  trout-fishing  trip.  Upon  the  advice 
of  friends,  you  intend  to  stay  at  one  of  the  camps  for  a 
day  or  two,  and  then  start  off  with  a  guide  and  a  canoe 
for  a  week's  fishing  on  the  tributaries  of  Lake  Rossignol. 
Having  a  first-class  Canadian  guide,  you  are  in  as  safe 
hands  as  it  is  possible  to  be.  The  day  before  you  start 
out  your  guide  will  sort  of  hang  around  and  "  get 
acquainted."  You  marvel  at  his  seemingly  impudent 
curiosity:  he  asks  you  if  you  can  swim;  he  inquires  what 
you  are  going  to  wear  on  your  feet;  he  appraises  your 
brand-new  fishing  gear  and  firearms;  he  inquires  if  you 
are  used  to  a  canoe;  he  wants  to  know  if  you  ever  slept 
out  in  a  tent;  he  overhauls  your  clothes,  blankets,  and 
the  numerous  sportsman's  paraphernalia  that  your 
friends  and  the  sporting-goods  salesmen  have  wished 
upon  you;  he  may  even  ask  if  you  are  addicted  to  indi- 
gestion, liquor,  and  tobacco.  Now,  he  is  not  being 
impertinent.  He  is  merely  trying  to  find  out,  with  as 
much  diplomacy  as  he  may  possess,  all  about  your 
experience,  outfit,  and  characteristics  with  a  view  to 
being  prepared  for  eventualities.  Any  deficiencies  in 
either  quantity  or  quality  in  your  supplies  will  be  taken 
care  of  in  his. 

Don't  lie  to  your  guide.  If  you  are  inexperienced, 
frankly  admit  it.  You  might  just  as  well.  Your  first 
day's  deportment  in  the  wilds  will  give  him  a  very  clear 
understanding  of  your  qualifications.  It  is  far  better  to 


For  the  Benefit  of  City  Nimrods 

admit  sublime  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  the  woods, 
canoeing  and  camping,  and  hence  give  your  mentor  an 
opportunity  to  anticipate  resultant  situations,  than  to 
claim  knowledge  that  you  do  not  possess.  He  asked 
you  about  your  footwear  because  he  wishes  to  make  sure 
that  you  are  going  to  wear  moccasins  or  rubber-soled 
shoes  in  his  canoe.  Hobnails,  leather  cleats,  or  even 
hard  leather-soled  shoes,  are  injurious  to  the  inside  of 
the  canoe,  upon  which  the  pleasure  of  your  entire  trip 
will  depend.  It  is  not  a  question  of  merely  scratching 
the  varnish  with  which  the  craft  is  finished;  it  is  the 
possibility  of  actually  splintering  or  breaking  the  inside 
ribs  and  sheathing,  over  which  the  thin  canvas  bottom 
is  stretched. 

He  asks  if  you  can  swim  because  it  is  important  to 
know,  in  case  of  a  tip-over  (the  most  expert  canoemen 
occasionally  have  such  an  accident),  whether  his  first 
salvage  efforts  must  be  on  behalf  of  the  supplies  or  the 
passenger.  If  the  latter  has  told  the  guide  that  he 
can  swim,  he  will  naturally  be  left  to  his  own  resources, 
while  the  guide  is  righting  the  canoe,  splashing  or  bailing 
the  water  out  of  her,  and  rounding  up  such  floating 
supplies  as  can  be  reached.  If  the  canoeman  knows  that 
his  "  sport  "  cannot  swim,  he  will  look  to  the  safety  of 
the  latter  first  and  the  grub  last.  Apropos  of  a  canoe 
capsizing:  always  remember  to  sit  or  kneel  in  the  middle, 
keep  down  and  keep  still.  Don't  try  to  turn  around, 
stand  up,  or  reach  out  over  the  side.  Kneeling  on  the 
bottom  is  preferable  to  sitting  perched  up  on  one  of  the 
thwarts.  If  you  have  admitted  that  you  are  inex- 
perienced in  a  canoe,  the  guide  is  then  on  the  alert  for 
unexpected  movements,  and  can  often  avert  disaster 
by  a  timely  quirk  with  paddle  or  pole.  Remember  that 
a  canoe,  while  most  useful  and  seaworthy  when  properly 
handled,  is  no  life-raft  nor  beamy  rowboat.  It  is 

49  D 


With  Gun     P  Rod  in  Canada 


decidedly  quick  and  temperamental  in  inefficient  hands. 
In  case  of  a  tip-over  it  is  comforting  to  know  that 
neither  bark,  canvas,  nor  basswood  will  sink,  so  if  you 
get  into  the  water,  hang  on  to  the  craft. 

The  queries  about  your  firearms  and  examination 
of  them  were  prompted  by  a  very  proper  desire  to  see 
if  the  calibres  were  suitable  for  the  game  then  in  season; 
to  find  out  if  you  were  foolish  enough  to  carry  the  gun 
loaded;  and  how  you  handled  the  gun  when  taking  it 
out  of  the  case  and  showing  it  off.  Guns  of  high  power, 
indiscreetly  discharged,  are  liable  to  kill  someone  a  mile 
away;  carelessly  handled,  they  may  kill  the  owner,  his 
guide,  or  blow  a  hole  in  the  canoe.  Never  pull  a  gun 
towards  you  by  the  barrel;  never  point  a  gun  at  anyone 
(except  a  German),  loaded  or  unloaded;  never  leave  a 
loaded  gun  lying  around  where  it  can  be  picked  up  by 
women,  children,  or  other  inexperienced  persons;  and 
if  shooting  at  a  target,  be  sure  of  the  background  of 
your  range;  if  shooting  at  an  animal  in  the  woods,  look 
for  four  legs  and  hairy  ears,  and  then  look  twice  again 
before  pulling  the  trigger;  never  carry  a  gun  cocked 
under  any  circumstances;  the  operation  of  cocking,  or 
throwing  off  the  safety,  may  be  done  with  sufficient 
speed  while  raising  the  gun  to  the  shoulder;  if  using  a 
lever-action  repeater,  don't  fail  to  lower  the  hammer 
after  you  are  through  shooting,  or  throw  on  the  safety, 
or,  better  still,  extract  the  loaded  shell  from  the  breach. 

If  your  guide  is  inquisitive  about  your  fishing  gear,  it 
is  because  he  wants  to  be  sure  that  you  have  a  suitable 
rod,  reel,  line,  leaders,  flies,  hooks  or  lures,  dip-net  or 
gaff.  If  your  trip  is  to  be  a  long  one  in  a  good  fish  and 
game  country,  you  will  depend  partly  upon  the  spoils 
of  your  gun  or  rod  for  food,  and  the  guide  has  to  be 
mighty  sure  that  the  necessary  utensils  are  in  your  outfit 
for  obtaining  sustenance  this  way. 

50 


For  the  Benefit  of  City  Nimrods 

In  asking  you  if  you  ever  slept  in  a  tent,  here  again 
it  is  important  for  him  to  have  the  truth.  If  you  are 
inexperienced  he  will  so  plan  his  trip  that  there  will 
be  comfortable  tenting- sites  each  night,  and  he  will 
start  to  make  camp  much  earlier  than  he  would  with 
a  seasoned  passenger  upon  whom  he  could  depend  for 
considerable  assistance. 

As  you  sit  on  a  stump  and  watch  him  deftly  manipulate 
his  glittering,  razor-sharp  axe,  magically  shaping  tent- 
pegs  and  poles,  making  chips  for  the  cook-fire  and  cutting 
logs  for  the  later  camp-fire,  you  are  fascinated.  A  strong 
temptation  steals  upon  you  to  pick  up  the  axe  and  show 
what  you  can  do. 

Don't  do  it. 

There  are  two  good  reasons  for  resisting  the  primitive 
instinct  most  men  and  boys  seem  to  have  for  fooling  with 
sharp  tools.  In  the  first  place,  you  are  sure  to  make  a 
misstroke  and  dull  the  axe  on  a  hard  knot,  or  drive  it  into 
the  ground,  and  so  nick  it  that  nothing  but  a  grindstone 
can  make  it  again  fit  for  use.  As  your  comfort,  food, 
and  safety  depend  on  fire  and  shelter,  the  axe  is  the  most 
important  tool  that  your  guide  has  to  use,  and  there  is 
no  action  you  can  take  that  will  make  you  so  unpopular 
as  experimenting  with  that  essential  implement.  A 
still  better  reason  is  the  danger  of  cutting  yourself  and 
bleeding  to  death  before  you  can  be  removed  to  civiliza- 
tion and  surgical  assistance.  When  you  consider  that 
even  professional  choppers  in  the  lumber  woods  often 
maim  themselves  beyond  repair  by  unavoidable  slips 
of  the  axe,  it  is  patently  a  poor  plaything  for  the  un- 
initiated. 

In  overhauling  your  clothes,  blankets,  etc.,  your  guide 
wants  to  be  sure  that  he  is  not  taking  you  into  the  woods 
with  more  dunnage  than  the  canoe  or  he  can  carry,  but 
with  suitable  quality  and  quantity  to  keep  you  from 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

perishing.  In  the  way  of  small  supplies  his  quick  eye 
looks  for  a  compass,  a  waterproof  matchbox,  fly-dope, 
or  fly-net,  court-plaster,  a  bandage  or  two,  iodine, 
tobacco,  pipe,  jack-knife,  rubber-soled  footwear  or 
moccasins,  two  or  three  pairs  of  "  soldier's "  socks, 
sweater,  etc.  If  he  sees  you  have  no  compass,  he  will 
not  let  you  out  of  his  sight  on  the  entire  trip.  His 
concern  over  fly-dope,  matchbox,  tobacco,  court-plaster, 
iodine,  etc.,  is  only  with  a  view  towards  avoiding  your 
possible  discomfort  by  supplying  in  his  own  pack  what 
has  been  left  out  of  yours. 

The  answer  to  his  query  about  your  digestive  apparatus 
guides  him  in  the  preparation  of  your  meals  and  the 
selection  of  raw  food.  His  solicitous  inquiry  about  your 
use  of  alcoholic  stimulants  arises,  I  am  sure,  from  a  personal 
interest  in  the  whole  liquor  question,  including  all 
brands,  vintages,  and  percentages.  There  is  always  a 
crestfallen  expression  upon  their  faces  when  they  draw  a 
"  sport  "  who  does  not  drink.  They  are  always  willing 
to  "  join  "  you  at  all  times  of  the  day  or  night,  and  have 
been  known  to  "join  "  you  when  you  did  not  know  any- 
thing about  it.  Most  of  them  have  shortcomings  as  pro- 
fessional guides,  but  as  professional  drunks  they  have  no 
peer  (with  apologies  to  the  proverbial  exceptions).  Any 
city-bred  "  Indian  "  who  goes  into  the  woods  and  allows 
his  guide  to  drink  more  than  the  bare  courtesy  of  the 
occasion  may  demand,  deserves  all  the  inefficient  service 
and  neglect  that  is  bound  to  follow. 

If  you  will  remember  that  guides  are  not  menials, 
but  are  licensed  by  the  Government  to  protect  the 
forests  from  fire,  shield  game  from  unlawful  destruction, 
defend  their  patrons  (with  their  own  lives,  if  necessary) 
from  the  dangers  of  the  forest,  stream,  and  wild  beasts, 
and  last,  but  not  least,  to  guard  the  amateur  sportsman 
from  self-inflicted  injuries — you  can  properly  respect 

52 


For  the  Benefit  of  City  Nimrods 

them  and  their  profession.  Your  trip  will  probably  cost 
you  less  if  you  listen  to  their  advice,  than  if  you  try  to 
become  a  "  Buffalo  Bill "  or  "  Kit  Carson "  through 
unadvised  personal  experiences. 

The  canoe  fills  a  very  natural  place  in  the  life  of  the 
great  American  public,  both  north  and  south  of  the 
international  boundary.  Its  light  weight,  speed,  sea- 
worthiness, and  shallow  draught  were  qualities  evolved 
from  the  topography  and  hydrography  of  this  continent. 
It  was  the  original  Indian  craft.  It  is  still,  and  always 
will  be,  typically  American.  They  are  now  so  universally 
in  use  at  summer  resorts,  as  well  as  for  business  and 
pleasure  in  the  wilds,  that  it  is  a  wonder  the  public 
does  not  know  more  about  the  proper  use  of  them. 
One  can  hardly  pick  up  a  paper  during  the  summer  season 
but  there  will  be  an  account  of  a  drowning  accident  due 
to  the  capsizing  of  a  canoe.  It  is  unfortunate  but  true 
that  a  large  percentage  of  city-trained  young  men  with 
little  experience  in  canoe  handling  will  invite  their  best 
girls  out  paddling.  The  very  trickiness  of  the  craft  seems 
to  incite  a  desire  to  pick  that  particular  vehicle  for 
showing  off  before  the  fair  sex. 

While  talking  to  the  manager  of  a  canoe  "  livery," 
situated  on  Toronto  Island,  we  interestedly  watched 
the  embarkation  and  immediate  saturation  of  a  young 
Hebrew  gentleman  and  his  henna-haired  vis-a-vis.  The 
canoe  was  carefully  held  with  its  port  side  to  the  float 
by  an  attendant,  while  Solomon  handed  his  Sheba  Queen 
to  her  luxurious  throne  among  the  cushions.  Then, 
grandiloquently  waving  aside  the  attendant,  Sol  picked 
up  the  paddle  and  placed  his  right  foot  in  the  stern  of 
the  canoe,  preparatory  to  sitting  down.  His  plan  worked, 
but  he  did  not  sit  exactly  where  he  had  intended.  As 
the  attendant  had  obediently  left  the  canoe  to  its  own 
resources,  the  instant  Sol's  right  foot  came  to  bear  on  the 

53 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 

bottom  of  the  craft,  said  craft  moved  skittishly  out  into 
the  stream.  Sol's  left  foot  being  still  on  the  float,  he 
began  to  perform  the  act  described  in  acrobatic  circles  as 
the  "  split."  Seeing  a  catastrophe  impending,  Sheba 
made  a  grab  for  the  float.  Sol  sat  gracefully  down  upon 
the  waters  of  Lake  Ontario,  then  submerged,  periscope 
and  all !  In  her  wild  struggles  to  seize  the  float,  the 
ardent-haired  one  tipped  over  the  ark  and  followed  her 
king.  The  attendant  quickly  pulled  out  the  bedraggled 
queen  while  the  manager  gaffed  the  gurgling  Sol  with 
an  ever-ready  boat-hook  and  flopped  him  on  to  the 
float.  To  add  insult  to  injury,  my  friend  had  the  nerve 
to  charge  those  two  poor  children  of  Israel  one  dollar 
($1.00)  for  drenching  the  canoe  furnishings !  That 
looked  to  me  the  hardest  dollar  that  ever  Jew  gave  Gentile. 

This  accident  could  have  been  avoided  if  Sol  had 
allowed  the  attendant  to  hold  the  canoe  steadily  beside 
the  float  until  both  occupants  were  seated;  or  by  the 
lady  holding  the  canoe  gently  to  the  float  with  the  right 
hand  while  her  partner  embarked;  or  by  Sol  kneeling 
down  (at  the  expense  of  the  crease  in  his  white  trousers) 
upon  the  float  with  his  left  knee  and  cautiously  stepping 
in  with  his  right  foot,  exactly  in  the  centre,  holding  on 
to  the  dock  with  his  left  hand,  then  shipping  his  other 
number  eleven,  and  last  removing  his  hand  from  the 
dock  and  kneeling  down. 

While  laughingly  discussing  the  above  incident  with 
the  manager  of  the  boat-house,  curiosity  prompted  me 
to  ask  him  why  young  men  took  such  chances  before  they 
learned  how  to  handle  a  canoe. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  they  want  to  make  a  reputation  for 
themselves,"  he  replied,  turning  to  punch  the  tickets 
of  some  newcomers. 

This  reply  made  me  think  of  other  times  and  other 
"  reputations." 


For  the  Benefit  of  City  Nimrods 

Some  years  ago,  two  Micmac  Indians,  answering  to  the 
names  of  Peter  and  Joe,  were  driving  logs  on  the  Mersey 
River  in  Nova  Scotia.  A  bad  log  jam  occurred  on  the 
falls  just  below  Indian  Gardens.  When  the  drive  boss 
came  along  he  ordered  the  two  erstwhile  sons  of  the 
forest  to  "  Get  out  on  that  there  plug,  break  it  up,  and 
make  reputations  for  yerselves !"  Old  Pete  took  a  look 
at  the  boss  and  a  look  at  the  jam,  and  delivered  himself 
as  follows: 

"  Helluver  reptashun  we  make,  Boss-man.  Little 
piece  in  paper,  'bout  inch  long,  jus'  sayin'  ( two  Injuns 
drowned  on  log  jam  ' !" 

The  moral  of  the  above  story  should  be  taken  to 
heart  by  all  those  seeking  a  too  early  reputation  as 
canoeists. 

If  you  are  tempted  to  try  your  luck  in  a  canoe  without 
the  benefit  of  an  instructor,  do  not  make  your  first 
attempt  when  the  wind  is  blowing.  Also,  do  not  sit 
on  the  stern  seat  or  thwart,  which  will  bring  the  bow 
way  out  of  water.  The  proper  position  is  to  kneel  just 
forward  of  the  first  thwart  aft  of  the  centre  one,  half 
sitting  and  half  leaning  upon  it,  and  use  your  paddle  on 
either  side  that  seems  most  convenient.  If  you  cannot 
swim,  it  would  be  better  to  learn  how  before  experi- 
menting with  a  paddle.  Never  invite  anyone  to  go  out 
in  a  canoe  with  you  while  you  are  learning,  and,  if 
possible,  avoid  taking  a  passenger  at  any  time  that  cannot 
swim. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  most  ludicrous  perform- 
ance I  ever  beheld  was  "  put  on  "  by  a  salt-water  sailor 
who  held  a  captain's  licence  and  had  been  all  over  the 
world  in  sailing  vessels.  He  was  also  a  cracker-jack  as  a 
yachtsman,  and  luckily  was  a  good  swimmer.  We  were 
moose-hunting  in  Nova  Scotia  and  had  our  tents  pitched 
on  the  "  Screecher  Carry,"  a  narrow  neck  of  land  between 

55 


With  Gun  ft?  Rod  in  Canada 


Lake  Rossignol  and  the  Fourth  Lake.  Jack  had  been 
paddling  bow  in  my  canoe  for  several  days,  and  being 
well  acquainted  with  his  courageous  character,  resource- 
fulness, and  swimming  ability,  I  had  not  given  a  thought 
to  his  previous  canoe  experience.  Consequently  when 
he  pushed  my  little  basswood  canoe  out  into  the  water 
and,  seating  himself  in  the  stern  seat,  began  to  paddle 
out  into  the  lake,  with  the  bow  high  in  the  air  and  the 
light  craft  teetering  on  her  narrow  stern  with  hardly  a 
third  of  her  keel  in  the  water,  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
give  us  an  exhibition  and  perhaps  showus  some  newstunts. 
There  was  a  stiff  breeze  blowing  offshore,  and  this  caught 
the  high  bow  of  the  canoe  and  kept  it  straight  before  the 
wind,  so  that  Jack's  inexpertness  with  the  paddle  did 
not  betray  itelf  to  us  observers  on  the  beach.  As  he 
shot  out  from  under  the  lee  of  the  land,  he  ran  into 
rough  water  and  half  a  gale  of  wind.  He  tried  to  turn 
around,  but  found  it  impossible,  owing  to  the  high  bow 
acting  as  a  sail,  and  during  his  struggles  a  wild  black 
squall  capsized  him.  Joe  and  I  launched  our  big 
guide's  model  eighteen-foot  canoe  and  went  to  the 
rescue.  When  we  got  to  him  we  found  the  little  craft 
had  tipped  him  out,  and,  hardly  shipping  any  water  at 
all,  had  immediately  righted  itself.  Jack  had  divested 
himself  of  a  heavy  sweater,  and  with  the  canoe's  painter 
in  his  teeth,  was  swimming  sturdily  for  shore  when  we 
picked  him  up.  He  did  not  say  very  much  until  safely 
on  the  beach.  Then  he  gave  us  the  most  enlightening 
exhibition  of  salt-water  cussing  that  ever  assaulted  our 
innocent  ears.  It  was  lurid.  He  cursed  my  particular 
canoe,  all  canoes  in  general,  and  the  men  that  made  them. 
He  had  on  a  pair  of  mole-skin  riding-breeches,  which 
shrank  so  rapidly  that  it  gave  the  pleasing  effect  of  a  little 
boy  growing  to  manhood  without  having  time  to  change 
his  pants.  A  couple  of  hours'  quiet  instruction  the 

56 


For  the  Benefit  of  Gity  Nimrods 

next  day  gave  Jack  the  working  principles  of  canoe  hand- 
ling. Before  the  trip  was  over  he  "  allowed  "  that  he 
"  could  put  her  anywheres  in  any  water." 

Having  been  a  sea  captain  and  in  the  habit  of  depending 
largely  upon  his  own  judgment,  Jack  showed  woeful 
stubbornness  about  another  vital  matter.  A  day  or 
two  after  the  canoe  incident  we  were  tenting  in  the  woods 
on  the  edge  of  another  lake.  It  had  been  very  dry  and 
windy.  The  woods  were  like  tinder,  and  we  all  had  been 
most  careful  about  putting  out  our  camp-fires  before 
going  hunting,  in  spite  of  Jack's  ridicule  of  our  "  fussi- 
ness."  While  the  guides  were  "  driving  "  a  large  bog, 
they  had  left  Jack  to  watch  for  moose  on  a  certain  run- 
way. Being  cold,  he  lit  a  small  fire.  As  no  game  showed 
up,  one  of  the  returning  guides  shouted  to  him  from  a 
distance  to  go  on  back  to  the  tents.  The  fuel  Jack  had 
been  using  was  bone  dry  and  made  no  smoke,  so  the 
guide  did  not  notice  that  our  friend  had  built  a  fire. 
Jack  made  his  way  back  to  camp,  indifferently  leaving 
the  fire  smouldering.  About  midnight  we  all  woke  up 
coughing.  There  was  a  high  wind  blowing  and  the 
smoke  was  dense.  The  sky  was  lighted  up  dead  to  wind- 
ward of  us,  and  it  was  a  wild  scramble  to  get  our  tents 
down,  our  canoes  launched,  and  our  supplies  tumbled 
pell-mell  into  them.  I  do  not  think  that  any  of  us  will 
ever  forget  that  desperate  midnight  paddle,  racing  before 
a  wicked,  foaming  sea  with  black,  driving  smoke  and 
showers  of  sparks.  In  landing  on  the  opposite  rocky 
shores  of  the  lake,  we  all  but  wrecked  our  canoes  in  the 
wind  lop.  As  the  fire  was  confined  between  two  lakes, 
it  burned  less  than  a  hundred  acres  of  second-growth 
timber  with  a  possible  damage  of  $1,000.00.  Jack 
settled. 

Moral:  Do  not  light  any  fires  upon  other  people's 
property  unless  accompanied  by  a  licensed  guide,  or 

57 


With  Gun     P  Rod  in  Canada 


except   in   cases   of   dire   necessity.     When  you   leave, 
extinguish  every  last  spark  with  damp  earth  or  water. 

In  conclusion,  I  would  advise  the  "  hick  "  from  the 
city  to  take  to  heart  a  cryptic  saying  of  Old  Ma-tee-o's, 
the  Micmac:  "  Little  fire,  Injun  ketch  'um;  meskuk 
(big)  fire,  ketch  'um  Injun  !" 


Memories  of  Moose- Shooting 

In  Sixteen  Epitomized  Chapters 


INTRODUCTION. 

IF  you  have  not  the  luck  nor  the  time  to  kill  a  moose 
yourself  and  hang  up  his  head  in  your  den,  the  next 
best  thing  is  to  shoot  with  the  camera  a  moose  killed 
by  someone  else. 

Last  fall  I  was  so  busy  building  dams  and  reconstruct- 
ing an  old  pulp  mill  that  I  could  not  spare  the  time 
necessary  for  a  prolonged  moose- hunt.  Even  in  Queen's 
County,  Nova  Scotia,  where  moose  are  plentiful  and 
comparatively  easy  to  kill  during  calling  season,  one  must 
be  in  exactly  the  right  spot  on  a  perfectly  calm,  frosty 
morning  to  have  success  assured. 

Location  and  weather  being  essential,  one  may  count 
on  spending  several  disappointing  days,  lacking  one  or 
the  other,  before  being  able  to  take  advantage  of  the 
time,  the  place,  and  the  moose. 

As  I  had  to  confine  my  hunting  to  short  week-end 
trips  taken  from  my  camp  on  Lake  Rossignol,  and  although 
successful  in  having  the  time  and  place  apparently  perfect 
on  several  mornings,  and  several  times  even  being  able 
to  exchange  verbal  compliments  with  foxy  old  bulls, 
something  generally  happened  to  keep  the  big  horns 
under  cover  during  the  limited  and  disconnected  time 
I  could  spare  for  hunting. 

59 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 


CHAPTER  I. — COMPETITION. 

I  had  too  much  competition  from  cow  moose,  which, 
owing  to  the  present  game  laws  in  Nova  Scotia,  are 
unusually  plentiful.  On  two  occasions  I  had  a  bull  coming 
up  and  speaking  distinctly,  when  his  attention  was  dis- 
tracted by  the  whine  of  a  real  cow  some  distance  away. 


CHAPTER  2. — RETROSPECTION. 

There  is  nothing  more  exciting  or  exasperating  than 
moose  calling  in  competition  with  a  cow  moose.  Once 
while  hunting  in  Ontario  I  succeeded  in  coaxing  a  big 
bull  up  to  within  easy  rifle-shot  and  killed  him,  in  spite 
of  the  whining  of  a  near-by  cow.  I  was  never  quite 
sure  whether  I  was  making  such  an  atrocious  imitation 
that  the  bull  had  decided  to  come  and  kill  me  out  of 
consideration  for  the  cow,  or  whether  it  was  mere  idle 
curiosity  which  the  blase  old  bull  decided  to  satisfy 
before  philandering  upon  his  way. 

CHAPTER  3. — ANTICIPATION. 

To  get  back  to  my  interrupted  attempts  last  fall  to 
coax  the  Nova  Scotia  moose  up  to  my  rifle:  I  wish  to 
reiterate  that  I  had  most  exciting  sport.  It  is  a  great 
trick  if  you  can  do  it. 

On  my  way  to  camp  a  week  or  two  after  the  season 
opened  I  was  fortunate  in  securing  a  photograph  of  a  set 
of  remarkable  moose  horns,  the  trophy  of  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Pifer,  of  Bridgewater.  His  guides  were  just  hauling 
their  moose  out  from  Lake  Rossignol,  and,  as  the  snap 
shows,  they  had  their  canoe  on  a  wagon,  the  four  quarters 
of  the  moose  were  in  the  canoe,  and  the  head,  wrapped 

60 


i. — THE  PARSON'S  MOOSE-HEAD,  AND  GUIDE. 


2. — DEFORMED    MOOSE-HORNS. 


3. — NORMAL     MOOSE-FOOT     ON     LEFT, 
ABNORMAL    GROWTH    ON    RIGHT. 

To  face  p.  60 


Memories  of  Moose-Shooting 

in  bagging,  perched  on  some  poles  lashed  athwartships 
of  the  wagon. 

My  carbine,  which  is  a  30  U.S.  Army  Winchester 
model  95,  would  just  reach  from  palm  to  palm  across 
the  horns.  Hence  the  spread  was  not  remarkable,  but 
these  horns  had  more  bone  in  them  than  any  horns  that 
I  have  seen  come  out  of  the  Rossignol  district  in  fifteen 
years.  The  palms,  instead  of  growing  out  sideways,  grew 
nearly  straight  back  over  the  moose's  shoulders,  and 
they  were  fully  twenty-eight  inches  long.  This  moose 
evidently  yarded  in  the  spring  and  summer  in  the  thick 
woods,  so  his  horns  grew  back  instead  of  spreading,  to 
permit  him  to  pass  between  the  trees.  If  these  horns 
had  grown  out  at  the  usual  angle  from  the  bull's  head, 
they  would  have  given  a  spread  of  nearly  eighty  inches. 

CHAPTER  4. — VINDICATION. 

On  this  same  trip  I  had  just  arrived  at  the  camp.  It 
was  Sunday  morning.  My  car  was  hardly  in  the  garage 
when  I  saw  a  canoe  coming  with  two  men  and  a  moose 
head  amidships.  This  moose  had  been  killed  on  Saturday 
by  John  Sheriff,  one  of  the  local  guides,  down  in  the 
North-East  Bay  country,  about  two  miles  from  camp, 
and  they  were  rushing  it  out  to  the  landing  early  Sunday 
morning,  so  they  could  be  in  time  for  church.  Anyway, 
this  was  the  excuse  John  gave  for  working  on  Sunday. 

The  moose  was  a  big  one,  as  the  photograph  shows. 
As  they  had  only  part  of  the  carcass  with  them,  which 
would  weigh  in  the  neighbourhood  of  about  two  hundred 
pounds  to  the  quarter,  and  had  to  paddle  back  to  get  the 
balance  of  the  animal,  I  am  under  the  impression  that 
they  did  not  get  out  to  the  settlement  in  time  to  attend 
even  Sunday-school. 

John  said  that  they  "  just  run  on  to  the  bull  "  on  the 

61 


With  Gun     P  Rod  in  Canada 


shore  of  the  lake  as  they  prepared  to  land  on  Saturday 
to  get  in  a  little  evening  moose  calling  !  One  might  call 
this  rank  luck  on  John's  part,  but  as  he  was  "  in  "  on 
the  killing  of  four  moose  last  fall,  his  experience  and 
good  hunting  qualities  are  perhaps  responsible  for  his  luck. 

CHAPTER  5.  —  ORNITHOLATION. 

On  the  following  day,  the  weather  not  being  right 
for  calling  and  looking  much  like  rain,  I  spent  four  hours 
along  the  edge  of  the  lake  shooting  yellowlegs  and  plover, 
of  which  there  were  thousands.  As  the  dam  at  the 
foot  of  Lake  Rossignol  was  being  rebuilt,  the  water  was 
drawn  down  to  such  an  extent  that  it  left  the  meadow 
and  bog  bare.  The  sun  had  baked  the  surface  hard,  so 
one  could  walk  upon  it.  I  stalked  up  to  within  easy 
range  of  the  birds  feeding  on  the  edge  of  the  water. 
Numerous  flocks  were  continually  flying  over. 

I  shot  a  couple  of  black  ducks  from  the  canoe,  in  the 
afternoon,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  camp  in  the 
edge  of  the  long  grass.  I  got  my  canoe  to  windward  of 
them,  lay  down  on  the  bottom,  and  let  the  wind  drift 
me  right  among  the  birds.  Although  black  ducks  and  teal 
are  plentiful,  with  an  occasional  mallard,  in  this  district 
duck-hunting  has  not  been  developed  as  a  sport  by  anyone. 

A  few  years  ago  I  bought  a  string  of  decoys  and  built 
a  blind  on  the  edge  of  a  bog  about  a  third  of  a  mile  from 
camp,  and  had  splendid  shooting.  In  fact,  we  got  sick 
of  eating  ducks.  The  following  spring  someone  borrowed 
the  decoys,  and  I  have  not  seen  them  since. 

CHAPTER  6.  —  INSINUATION. 

Ordinarily,  during  the  moose  season,  I  do  not  like  to 
use  a  shotgun,  on  account  of  alarming  bigger  game. 
On  many  occasions  we  have  seen  moose  come  out  within 

62 


Memories  of  Moose-Shooting 

sight  of  the  camp  and  within  an  easy  rifle-shot.  One 
of  my  friends  actually  succeeded  in  getting  a  snapshot 
of  a  bull,  a  cow,  and  a  calf  standing  in  the  water  at  the 
edge  of  the  bog  not  over  a  hundred  yards  from  the  door 
of  the  boat-house. 


CHAPTER  7. — DESCRIPTION. 

Just  a  word  here  about  "  my  hut  in  the  woods."  I 
suppose  every  sportsman  hopes  some  day  to  have  a  camp 
somewhere  in  the  wilderness,  built  out  of  logs,  with  big 
stone  fireplace  and  all  in  accordance  with  his  dreams. 
It  took  the  writer  ten  years  to  find  the  location,  which 
of  course  must  be  in  the  heart  of  a  fine  hunting  and 
fishing  district,  and  to  build  such  a  cabin.  Strange  as 
it  may  seem,  both  camp  and  location  have  been  more 
satisfactory  in  realization  than  in  anticipation. 

The  construction  of  this  log  cabin  will  be  of  interest 
to  sportsmen  who  have  had  the  usual  difficulty  of  keeping 
the  calking  between  the  logs  of  a  cabin  from  drying  up 
and  falling  out.  This  building  is  calked  with  Portland 
cement,  which  was  put  in  about  ten  years  ago,  and  is 
perfectly  good  and  tight  at  this  date  (1918).  The 
interesting  point  regarding  this  method  of  calking  which 
has  worked  out  so  successfully  is  the  fact  that  the  cement 
is  reinforced.  After  the  logs  were  laid  up  and  the 
building  roofed,  I  drove  shingle  nails  three  inches  apart 
in  the  upper  and  lower  log  of  each  seam,  and  left  them 
sticking  out  about  three-quarters  of  an  inch  where  the 
space  permitted.  Then  I  strung  fine  picture  wire  be- 
tween the  heads  of  the  nails,  with  one  turn  around  each 
nail.  Mortar  was  made  of  Portland  cement  and  sand, 
mixed  five  to  one,  and  of  the  same  consistency  as  lime 
mortar.  I  applied  this  calking  inside  and  out  with  a 
mason's  trowel.  The  nails  and  wire  held  the  cement 

63 


With  Gun  ft?  Rod  in  Canada 


together  and  kept  it  from  falling  out.  The  cement  fits 
so  closely  between  the  peeled,  dry  logs  that  practically 
no  water  can  lie  on  the  logs  between  the  seams.  This 
makes  a  job  that  is  water-tight,  vermin-  and  mouse- 
proof,  and  clean  both  inside  and  outside  the  cabin. 

The  house  sits  on  a  wooded  elevation,  fifteen  or 
twenty  feet  above  the  lake.  As  there  was  a  natural 
spring  of  clear,  soft  water  flowing  out  of  the  side  of  a 
little  knoll  in  front  of  the  house,  I  dug  and  stoned  up  a 
nice  well,  which  is  apparently  inexhaustible.  I  added 
a  nice  modern  bathroom  to  my  otherwise  fairly  complete 
equipment,  and  now  feel  that  I  have  all  the  comforts 
of  civilization  without  the  conventionalities  and  con- 
sequent burdens  that  city  folk  are  always  trying  to  get 
away  from. 

Believe  me,  it  is  "  some  "  luxury  to  make  camp  at 
night  after  packing  a  moose  out  of  a  bog,  when  you  are 
all  covered  with  mud,  blood  and  moose  hair,  and  find 
yourself  able  to  take  a  bath  in  a  real  tub  with  plenty  of 
hot  water. 

A  supper  of  fried  trout,  broiled  partridge,  and  roast 
moose  meat  seems  to  taste  better,  the  log-fire  in  the  big 
fireplace  seems  to  burn  brighter,  and  fish  and  moose 
stories  can  be  forgiven  more  easily  after  such  a  finish  to 
a  strenuous  day. 

CHAPTER  8. — PISCATATION. 

While  entertaining  a  party  of  friends  about  the 
middle  of  October  at  camp,  we  noticed  fish  jumping 
in  front  of  the  boat-house.  I  put  a  fly-rod  together, 

and  taking  Mrs.  B with  me  in  a  canoe,  I  handed 

her  the  rod  and  paddled  out  to  investigate.  She  cast; 
a  fish  struck,  and  after  a  royal  fight  (she  was  using  a 
3$-ounce  bamboo  rod)  I  slipped  the  net  under  a  white 


Memories  of  Moose-Shooting 

perch  weighing  a  pound.  She  cast  once  or  twice  again, 
and  got  another  heavy  strike.  We  were  fully  five 
minutes  trying  to  get  this  fellow  up  close  enough  to  the 
canoe  to  slip  the  dip-net  under  him.  When  she  got 
the  fish  in  close  enough,  I  discovered  she  had  three, 
one  on  each  fly.  After  considerable  manipulation  I 
succeeded  in  dipping  the  fish  on  the  tail  fly,  then  got  the 
second  fish  and  finally  the  top  one,  landing  all  three  safely 
in  the  canoe.  By  this  time  the  whole  party  was  putting 
rods  together  and  pushing  out  in  canoes  to  enjoy  the 
sport.  We  certainly  had  it.  We  caught  another  triple 
and  several  doubles.  Just  for  an  experiment  we  attached 

a  fourth  fly  to  the  leader,  and  Mrs.  B successfully 

landed  four  at  once. 

In  all  my  experience  in  trout-fishing  (and  the  Rossignol 
streams  are  full  of  the  big  spotted,  fighting  fish),  I  have 
yet  to  see  a  trout  put  up  the  battle  or  show  the  game- 
staying  qualities  of  these  white  perch.  And  the  trout 
usually  have  swift-running  water  to  assist  in  their 
attempts  to  get  away,  while  the  perch  had  to  fight  in 
still  water.  Americans  call  these  perch,  bass.  Never 
having  seen  bass,  I  do  not  know. 

Mrs.  B landed  one  fish  that  weighed  two  and  a 

half  pounds,  which  is  the  largest  perch  I  have  ever  seen 
caught  in  this  country.  The  flies  used  were  a  small 
Parmachene  Beau  on  the  tail,  a  Silver  Doctor  in  the 
middle,  and  a  Ginger  Quill  next  to  the  line. 

These  perch  skinned,  with  the  fins  properly  cut  out, 
and  rolled  in  corn  meal  and  salt,  make  trout  taste  like 
a  cold  pancake  in  comparison. 

CHAPTER  9. — DEFORMATION. 

The  week-end  following  the  above-mentioned  party, 
Ike  and  I  left  the  mill  in  my  little  car  at  six  o'clock  Sunday 
morning,  and  arrived  at  camp  just  in  time  to  take  snaps 

65  E 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

of  one  of  the  most  peculiar  freak  moose  that  I  have 
ever  seen. 

Four  natives  had  been  hunting,  and  had  just  arrived 
at  the  landing  with  two  moose,  one  of  which  had  deformed 
horns  and  a  deformed  foot.  You  will  note  in  the  photo- 
graph of  this  freak  moose  head  that  the  horns  are  just 
big  gnarly  lumps  of  somewhat  the  appearance  of  moose 
horns  when  in  the  velvet,  except  that  these  horns  were 
as  hard  as  flint.  I  should  be  interested  to  hear  from 
any  hunters  who  have  seen  a  similar  set,  and  also  to  hear 
their  opinions  of  the  cause  of  the  deformity. 

Upon  an  examination  of  the  carcass  of  the  moose,  the 
meat  was  found  to  be  of  quite  normal  appearance — 
fat  and  perfectly  wholesome.  The  left  forward  foot  was 
larger  than  the  right,  and  one  claw  had  grown  out  to 
nearly  twice  the  length  of  the  other. 

If  upon  some  early  morning  "  after  the  night  before  " 
I  should  run  across  the  track  made  by  such  a  foot  in  a 
bog,  I  verily  believe  it  would  influence  me  to  give  up 
drinking.  Like  Mike  when  he  inspected  the  camel  in 
the  menagerie,  I  would  say,  "  There  ain't  no  such 
animal !" 


CHAPTER  10. — EMBARKATION. 

After  photographing  this  freak  moose,  Ike  and  I  took 
the  shotgun,  rifle,  and  camera,  with  some  grub  and 
camp  gear,  and  started  in  the  motor-boat  on  one  more 
expedition,  after  a  model  live  moose  for  photographic 
purposes.  This  sounds  like  a  large  order,  and  it  is. 
We  came  within  an  ace  of  being  successful.  We  ran 
five  miles  across  the  end  of  Lake  Rossignol  to  Trout 
Brook  Meadow,  and  moored  the  motor-boat  at  the 
mouth  of  the  brook.  We  then  took  the  canoe  and 
paddled  up  the  still  water,  poling  up  a  couple  of  runs 

66 


Memories  of  Moose-Shooting 

until  we  came  to  the  upper  meadow,  or  bog,  which  is 
about  half  a  mile  long,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  wide,  and  right 
in  the  heart  of  a  fine  moose  country. 


CHAPTER  n. — DIGRESSION. 

Just  here  we  met  a  porcupine  and  succeeded  in  taking 
a  photograph  of  her,  much  against  her  own  inclinations. 


CHAPTER  12. — SIRENATION. 

It  was  about  3  p.m.  when  we  started  to  call  from  a 
blind  in  a  bunch  of  bushes  running  out  into  the  meadow. 
There  was  no  wind.  I  believe  Ike  called  only  once,  when 
a  big  cow  ambled  out  on  the  bog,  dead  to  westward  of  us, 
and  apparently  unconcerned  over  our  imitative  efforts. 
I  stood  up  and  snapped  the  camera  at  her  twice.  I  had 
to  shoot  directly  into  the  sun.  While  I  was  getting 
ready  for  the  third  shot,  Ike  whispered  to  me  to  "  Get 
down  !"  As  I  clicked  the  Kodak  I  glanced  toward  the 
cow,  and  saw  the  sun  glint  on  the  horns  of  a  big  bull 
just  as  he  turned  in  the  edge  of  the  woods  and  went 
behind  some  trees.  Undoubtedly  he  saw  me.  I  did  not 
have  time  to  pick  up  my  rifle  before  he  was  gone.  Ike 
picked  up  the  call  and  "  spoke  bull."  The  bull  roared 
his  defiance,  but  would  not  come  out  on  the  bog.  The 
cow  kept  up  a  continual  whining,  and  trotted  back  and 
forth  near  the  edge  of  the  woods  where  the  bull  was 
hidden,  keeping  between  us  and  him. 

CHAPTER  13. — TREPIDATION. 

Ike  and  I  are  both  licensed  guides  and  old  moose- 
hunters,  but  we  were  shaking  with  excitement.  The  bull 
kept  speaking  (almost  a  continual  roaring),  and  we  could 

6? 


With  Gun      >  Rod  in  Canada 


hear  him  tearing  up  the  ground  with  his  front  feet.  We 
could  see  the  saplings  swaying  when  he  hooked  them  with 
his  horns.  This  performance  kept  up  for  more  than  an 
hour.  During  that  time  he  threatened  to  come  out 
every  minute.  First,  I  would  pick  up  my  camera  and 
resolve  to  have  the  moral  courage  to  try  to  get  a  picture 
if  he  did  come  out.  Then  I  would  throw  down  my 
camera  and  pick  up  my  rifle,  feeling  that  this  might  be 
my  last  chance  to  get  a  moose.  Then  I  would  drop  the 
rifle  and  go  back  to  the  camera.  I  fully  believe  that  if 
that  big  bull  had  finally  come  out,  I  would  have  tried 
to  shoot  him  with  the  camera  in  one  hand  and  rifle  in 
the  other.  Ike  had  both  barrels  of  the  shotgun  loaded 
with  ball  cartridges,  and  he  would  have  blazed  away 
with  both  barrels  if  the  bull  had  stuck  his  head  out, 
although  the  distance  was  far  too  great  for  a  smooth- 
bore to  do  any  execution.  At  last  the  old  cow  wandered 
into  the  woods,  and  we  neither  saw  nor  heard  any  more 
of  them. 

CHAPTER  14. — DESPERATION. 

The  sun  was  going  down  when  we  paddled  back  to  the 
motor-boat.  We  ran  over  to  a  big  cove  on  the  western 
shore  of  the  lake  to  camp  for  the  night.  We  intended 
to  call  the  next  morning — our  last  chance — from  a  high 
knoll  overlooking  some  extensive  barrens.  It  was  pitch 
dark  when  we  got  to  the  beach  and  landed  our  duffle. 
Ike  took  the  axe  and  began  to  chop  a  dry  pine  stump  on 
the  shore  to  get  a  fire  started.  At  about  the  third  stroke 
of  the  axe,  we  were  startled  by  a  bull  speaking  in  the 
bushes  not  over  a  hundred  feet  from  where  we  were 
making  camp.  It  was  too  dark  to  go  after  him,  and  the 
woods  were  too  thick  to  try  to  get  a  shot  at  him,  so  we 
decided  to  make  a  quiet  camp,  eat  a  cold  supper,  and 

68 


Memories  of  Moose-Shooting 

crawl  into  our  sleeping-bags  right  on  the  beach.  We 
rigged  up  a  wind-break  with  the  canvas  motor-boat  cover, 
built  no  fire,  and  turned  in. 

When  daylight  came  there  was  a  thick  fog,  and  we  had 
to  wait  until  an  hour  after  sunrise  before  we  dared  go 
back  and  investigate  the  tracks,  or  make  an  attempt  to 
call  the  bull  within  shooting  distance.  We  found  the 
beach  covered  with  deer  and  moose  tracks.  We  also 
found  tracks  of  a  bull  a  little  way  from  camp.  We 
followed  them  around  until  they  came  out  on  the  beach 
below  and  to  leeward  of  us.  Here  we  quit,  as  the  moose 
had  broken  into  a  trot  and  was  travelling  fast  and  prob- 
ably far.  There  was  a  slight  north-west  wind.  As  the 
bull  worked  to  windward  of  us  in  the  night  and  walked 
out  on  the  beach,  he  caught  our  scent.  One  whiff  was 
enough.  We  saw  where  he  had  driven  his  front  feet 
in  the  sand  as  he  whirled  to  get  out  of  that  neck  of  the 
woods.  We  fervently  hope  that  he  will  grow  another 
big  set  of  horns  and  will  carry  them  across  our  trail  in 
the  fall  of  1918. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  roll  up  our  sleeping- 
bags,  put  our  duffle  aboard  the  motor-boat,  and  return 
to  camp. 

CHAPTER  15. — ABNEGATION. 

On  the  way  home  from  camp  in  the  car,  we  shot  some 
partridges  from  the  front  seat.  This  stunt,  by  the  way, 
is  not  so  easy  as  it  sounds.  We  would  often  run  the  car 
up  to  within  thirty  or  forty  feet  of  a  partridge  in  the  road 
as  we  came  round  a  bend,  but  by  the  time  we  would  get 
the  car  stopped  and  Ike  would  stand  up  to  shoot,  the 
partridge  would  be  whirring  away  in  the  brush  or  running 
under  the  bushes.  We  succeeded  in  killing  four,  and 
must  have  missed  a  dozen,  much  to  our  chagrin. 


With  Gun  £?  Rod  in  Canada 


CHAPTER  16. — NEGATION. 

After  driving  to  the  mill,  we  waited  with  considerable 
impatience  for  the  snapshots  I  had  taken  to  be  developed. 
We  had  hoped  that  the  third  snap  I  had  made  of  the 
cow  at  Trout  Brook  Meadow  would  show  the  bull 
turning  on  the  edge  of  the  woods.  All  three  negatives 
were  negative. 


70 


U-Fish 

THAT  sea  salmon  no  longer  spawn  in  Lake  Rossignol, 
Nova  Scotia,  is  beyond  peradventure  of  a  doubt. 
The  year  that  Fletch  Wade  hooked  a  wildcat 
while  fly-fishing  for  grilse  is  the  last  season  that  a  salmon 
was  caught  in  the  falls  just  below  the  dam  at  Indian 
Gardens.  It  seems  that  he  did  not  succeed  in  either 
gaffing  or  dipping  the  wildcat — but  that  is  another 
story.  The  following  season  dams  were  constructed 
across  the  Mersey  River  that  effectually  prevented  the 
passage  of  migratory  fish.  The  great  Rossignol  water- 
shed with  its  innumerable  streams  and  lakes  fairly  team 
with  trout,  big  white  perch,  and  all  kinds  of  small  fresh- 
water fish;  but  outside  of  some  very  large  speckled  trout 
which  have  been  landed,  up  to  date  there  have  not  been 
big  fish  of  any  other  species  caught.  That  there  are 
big  fish  other  than  trout  in  the  lake  is  well  known  to 
the  Indians  and  guides  who  frequent  this  section.  Just 
what  they  are  and  how  to  catch  them  are  still  unsolved 
mysteries. 

Lake  Rossignol  is  really  three  lakes  flooded  into  one 
by  a  dam  at  Indian  Gardens.  The  upper  or  Third 
Lake  carries  the  name  of  the  system,  while  the  other 
two  are  simply  known  as  the  First  and  Second  Lakes. 
Through  a  group  of  islands  near  the  outlet  of  the  Third 
Lake  runs  a  very  deep,  clear  water-channel,  perhaps 
a  hundred  yards  wide  and  half  a  mile  long.  One  August 
evening  while  passing  through  this  channel  in  my  motor- 
boat,  I  was  startled  to  see  the  back  and  tail  of  a  large 
fish  break  water  within  twenty  feet  of  the  boat.  As  there 

71 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

was  no  wind  the  surface  of  the  water  was  otherwise 
quite  unruffled.  I  immediately  stopped  the  engine 
and  circled  the  boat  around,  and  watched.  Two  more 
monster  fish  broke  water:  then  a  third  and  fourth. 
There  was  a  pause,  and  while  I  waited  in  excitement  and 
suspense,  a  big  tail  flipped  out  of  water  within  a  foot 
of  the  boat  and  as  high  as  the  rail.  Having  a  creel  half 
full  of  speckled  trout  that  I  had  caught  that  afternoon 
just  below  the  Hopper,  I  reached  quickly  into  the  basket, 
picked  up  a  fish  and  tossed  it  overboard.  There  was 
a  swirl  and  a  snap,  and  the  tail  half  of  the  trout  was  seen 
whirling  around  in  the  diminishing  eddy.  But  for  an 
instant  only.  There  was  another  rush  and  splash,  and 
the  remains  of  the  trout  disappeared.  Curious  to  get 
a  better  look  at  the  voracious  monster  that  could  make 
two  bites  of  a  two-pound  trout,  I  tossed  three  fish  over- 
board, one  after  another. 

Snap  !  Splash  !  Snap  !  Splash  !  Snap  !  Splash  !  All 
three  fish  had  vanished.  The  water  for  half  a  minute 
had  seemed  to  be  alive  with  shark-like,  finny  bodies. 
It  was  now  so  dark  that  I  could  not  make  out  either 
their  colour  or  size.  But  the  performance  reminded  me 
of  a  time  when  I  had  seen  a  salt-water  fisherman  throw 
overboard  half  a  tub  of  spoiled  herring,  and  a  school  of 
dogfish  had  fought  over  the  odoriferous  delicacy.  In 
the  eerie  half-light,  this  astonishing  demonstration  of  the 
hitherto  unguessed  fact  of  there  being  fresh-water  sharks 
in  the  old  lake  made  me  nervous.  Having  no  tackle 
heavy  enough  to  catch  them  and  no  harpoon,  I  gave  the 
fly-wheel  of  the  engine  a  flip,  and  chugged  busily  for 
Lowe's  Landing  and  the  camp. 

The  combination  of  bright  moonlight  and  the  ripple 
made  by  the  motor-boat  produced  weird  effects  astern. 
As  the  wake  of  the  boat  would  for  an  instant  uncover  a 
barely  submerged  ledge,  it  gave  the  effect  of  a  black, 

72 


U-Fish 

misshapen,  subaquatic  monster  rising  lazily  to  the  surface 
and  rolling  over.  The  end  of  an  old  log,  which  in  the 
daylight  acted  as  a  friendly  channel  mark,  in  the  misty 
moonlight  seemed  to  rise  menacingly  out  of  the  water 
and  reach  towards  the  dodging  motor-boat.  Several 
times  I  ran  too  close  to  various  cliffs  or  islands  marking 
the  channel,  and  sheered  off  only  just  in  time.  On  one 
occasion  I  side-swiped  a  hidden  boulder,  and  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  steel  guard,  would  have  broken  the 
propeller.  I  could  have  sworn  that  this  rock  jumped 
right  out  into  mid-channel  for  the  sole  purpose  of  attack- 
ing me.  Perhaps  if  I  had  watched  more  consistently 
the  skyline  ahead  instead  of  being  so  horribly  fascinated 
by  the  antics  of  the  Bal<zn<z  mysticeta  astern,  I  might 
have  steered  straighter.  To  speak  plainly,  the  happenings 
of  the  evening  had  induced  a  frenetic  condition  of  the 
imagination,  with  a  consequent  frigorific  effect  upon  my 
pedal  extremities.  It  was  also  quite  evident  that  the 
above  effect  increased  as  the  square  of  the  size  of  the 
moccasins,  and  as  I  wore  number  elevens,  you  can  easily 
visualize  the  resultant  irresponsible  and  divaricating 
course  of  the  boat. 

Once  out  of  the  big  lake,  safely  through  the  Narrows, 
and  popping  comfortably  across  our  little  home  pond, 
I  felt  easier  in  my  mind.  Before  I  had  tied  up  at  the 
dock,  I  had  already  planned  a  campaign  of  crafty  assault 
upon  the  mysterious  denizens  of  the  Deep  Channel. 

Sitting  down  to  a  kte  supper,  I  resolved  to  say  nothing 
to  the  various  sportsmen  and  guides  until  I  had  had  an 
opportunity  of  trying  to  catch  one  of  the  big  fish  without 
too  much  help  and  advice.  Knowing  that  trout  were 
the  right  bait,  I  was  not  worrying  on  that  score.  Also, 
I  had  a  stout  steel  rod,  a  brand-new  heavy  silk  salmon 
line  and  reel;  but  what  I  was  to  use  for  a  hook  and  leader 
baffled  me. 

73 


With  Gun     ?  Rod  in  Canada 


Surreptitiously  rifling  my  tackle-box,  I  unearthed  a 
large  silver  minnow  with  a  single  fish-hook,  two  and  a 
half  inches  long,  through  its  tail.  I  also  found  a  couple 
of  old  wollopers  of  swivelled  spoons,  each  armed  with  a 
gang  of  hooks  and  a  feather  duster.  The  guy  that  made 
these  ostensible  weapons  of  offence  against  finny  sports 
either  had  an  optimistic  imagination,  or  had  in  mind 
some  such  fish  as  those  I  was  going  after.  Down  in  the 
boat-house  I  found  a  piece  of  braided  copper  wire,  left 
by  some  sportsman  who  had  been  doing  deep  trolling 
for  the  big  August  trout.  Tying  a  piece  of  salmon  line 
on  to  four  or  five  feet  of  this  copper  leader,  I  looped 
it  around  my  foot,  wrapped  a  bit  of  the  line  around  a 
hammer  handle,  and  pulled.  The  line  broke  about  six 
inches  from  where  it  was  tied  in  the  loop  of  the  copper. 
I  should  judge  that  I  pulled  some  thirty-five  or  forty 
pounds  before  the  line  parted.  I  was  satisfied  that  if 
I  could  hook  one  of  the  big  fish,  I  could  hold  him  with 
the  help  of  a  drifting  boat. 

The  next  afternoon  I  sneaked  off  in  a  little  sixteen- 
foot  power  launch.  Arriving  on  the  scene  of  the  adven- 
ture of  the  previous  night,  I  rigged  up  the  short,  power- 
ful steel  rod,  tied  the  copper  leader  to  my  salmon  line, 
tied  the  silver  minnow  and  giant  hook  on  to  that,  then 
hooked  on  a  six-inch  speckled  trout  for  bait.  Just  before 
sunset  I  made  the  first  cast  standing  up  in  the  stern  of 
the  motor-boat. 

The  bait  struck  the  water  some  eighty  feet  away. 
I  let  it  sink  below  the  surface  and  then  reeled  slowly  in. 
When  it  was  about  forty  feet  from  the  boat  one  of  the 
big  fish  took  it  under  water.  I  set  the  hook  with  a 
sharp  jerk  and  the  fish  started  straight  down  the  channel. 
For  all  I  know  he  is  going  yet.  When  the  line  was  all  off 
the  reel  it  broke,  luckily  near  the  fish.  The  boat  had 
no  time  to  accumulate  any  headway,  and  I  could  not  put 

74 


U-Fish 

pressure  enough  upon  the  spool  to  retard  the  speed  of 
the  fleeing  U-fish.  I  reeled  sadly  in,  rigged  up  another 
piece  of  copper  leader,  attached  one  of  the  feathered 
spoons  and  small  trout,  and  tried  again.  Inside  of 
ten  minutes  I  was  hooked  to  another.  This  time  I  was 
ready  for  him.  I  had  my  engine  primed  and  the  switch 
on.  As  I  held  the  rod  and  singing  reel  in  one  hand,  I 
gave  the  fly-wheel  a  flip  with  the  other,  and  we  started 
down  the  channel.  It  was  a  nice  companionable  little 
party,  but  it  didn't  last.  As  long  as  we  kept  on  the  straight 
away  I  could  steer  the  boat  with  one  hand  and  keep  hold 
of  the  rod  with  the  other.  When  the  fish  doubled  back 
I  could  not  turn  the  wheel  and  the  reel  at  the  same  time. 
The  fish  snagged  the  slack  line  on  the  bottom  and  broke 
away.  By  the  time  I  had  the  motor-boat  stopped,  I 
found  myself  hooked  to  a  log,  and  the  fight  was  over. 

With  half  my  line  and  one  feather  duster  spoon-hook 
left,  I  decided  to  try  once  more.  As  my  braided  copper 
leader  was  all  gone,  I  used  an  aluminium  key-chain. 
It  made  a  very  good-looking  rig.  With  another  trout 
attached  for  bait,  I  soon  hooked  a  third  big  fellow.  He 
sounded  when  he  struck.  I  got  the  boat  going  and  kept 
it  running  in  a  circle,  expecting  that  my  quarry  would 
soon  bolt  down  the  channel.  Instead  he  came  up  and 
broke  water  within  ten  feet  of  the  boat.  The  rod  was 
pulled  violently  towards  the  stern  and  nearly  jerked 
out  of  my  hand.  Then  the  engine  slowed  down  and 
stopped.  The  fish  had  fouled  the  line  in  the  propeller, 
and  about  a  hundred  yards  of  it  were  neatly  and  tightly 
wound  around  the  shaft,  and  so  jammed  between  the 
wheel  and  the  stuffing-box  that  the  friction  had  actually 
stopped  the  engine.  Luckily  I  carried  a  very  sharp 
weed-hook  with  a  three-foot  handle.  With  the  aid 
of  an  electric  flash-light,  I  finally  succeeded  in  loosening 
the  tangle  and  freeing  the  wheel.  While  pointing  the 

75 


With  Gun  &>  Rod  in  Canada 

light  down  into  the  water,  several  of  the  big  fish  swam 
curiously  into  the  iridescent  circle,  but  did  not  come 
close  enough  for  me  to  reach  them  with  the  weed-hook. 
I  longed  for  a  fish-spear.  Cold,  hungry,  and  disappointed, 
I  gave  it  up  for  the  night,  and  made  camp  and  supper 
by  nine  o'clock. 

I  have  tried  for  the  big  fish  upon  several  occasions 
since,  and  have  been  hooked  to  them  twice,  each  time 
with  disastrous  results  to  my  fishing  gear.  No  fisherman 
has  turned  up  at  my  camp  with  either  the  patience  or 
apparatus  for  handling  anything  so  heavy  or  so  vicious 
as  these  smashers  seem  to  be.  The  discouraging  part 
of  the  whole  business  is  that  I  know  from  experience 
that  one  can  fish  for  an  entire  week,  and  toss  them  every- 
thing from  a  live  trout  to  a  spoon  made  out  of  a  twenty- 
dollar  gold  piece,  without  the  desired  result. 

But  when  they  do  take  it  into  their  heads  to  bite,  they 
fight  right. 


44 


Tolling  "  Wild  Animals 


HAVING  hunted  as  an  amateur  and  as  a  professional 
for  a  great  many  years  pretty  well  all  over  the 
North  American  continent,  I  had  until  lately 
laboured  under  the  impression  that  I  knew  nearly  every 
method  extant,  or  extinct,  for  catching  wild  animals. 

Early  in  June  of  this  year  an  acquaintance  living  at 
Vogler's  Cove,  on  the  coast  of  Nova  Scotia,  "  sprang  " 
a  new  one.  In  a  very  matter-of-fact  way  he  told  me 
about  a  man  named  Nowe,  living  in  his  little  village, 
who  made  a  practice  of  "  tolling  "  wild  animals.  When 
asked  to  elucidate,  he  explained  that  he  had  accompanied 
his  friend  Nowe  when  he  had  caught  mink  by  means  of  a 
wire  snare  held  in  his  hand,  and  which  he  slipped  over 
the  mink's  head  after  "  coaxing  "  him  close  enough  to  do 
so.  This  sounded  like  true  "  animal  magnetism,"  or  plain 
bunk,  and  I  naturally  doubted  the  truth  of  the  story. 

My  acquaintance  then  went  on  to  tell  me  that  he  had 
actually  shipped  three  pairs  of  mink  caught  this  way 
by  Mr.  Nowe  to  a  local  fur  farm,  and  that  he  had  received 
sixty-five  dollars  per  pair  for  them  alive  for  breeding 
purposes.  He  told  how  this  wizard  Nowe  could  catch, 
and  had  caught,  other  wild  animals  by  the  same  method. 
He  gave  in  detail  a  performance  he  had  seen  Nowe  conduct 
with  seals  in  Port  Medway  Harbour: 

"Nowe  would  lie  down  on  the  rocks  near  the  edge  of  the 
water,"  he  went  on,  "  and  writhe  around  in  imitation  of 
a  seal,  and  thereby  coax  the  real  seals  up  so  close  to  him 
that  he  could  put  his  hands  upon  them  and  actually  play 
with  them,  or  fasten  a  rope  to  them  if  he  wished  to." 

77 


With  Gun         Rod  in  Canada 


Now,  although  I  believed  that  my  friend  was  in  most 
things  perfectly  honest,  and  although  in  my  early  fishing 
adventures  I  had  "  tickled  trout  "  and  snared  fish  with 
fine  wire,  my  experience  with  wild  animals  convinced 
me  that  such  hypnotizing  of  the  kind  of  game  he  was  refer- 
ring to  would  be  impossible.  Both  the  acute  sense  of 
smell  and  sight  possessed  by  wild  things  would  preclude 
the  possibility  of  their  being  fooled  while  Mr.  Nowe  was 
giving  them  a  "  close-up  "  of  his  act. 

A  couple  of  weeks  later  I  was  taking  a  cruise  in  my 
motor-boat  from  Port  Medway  Bay  eastward  along  the 
Atlantic  coast,  and  put  in  at  Petite  Riviere  breakwater 
for  the  night.     On  Monday  morning,   July  22,   as   I 
sauntered   along   the   plank  top  of  the   old   structure, 
I  saw  a  mink  dodge  in  under  some  broken  planking.     I 
stood  still,  and  a  few  minutes  later  saw  three  young  ones 
darting  in  and  out  among  the  ballast  rocks.     They  were 
about  twenty-five  feet  from  where  I  stood,  and  although 
they  had  seen  me  did  not  seem  to  be  particularly  fright- 
ened.    I   hurried  back  to  the  motor-boat  to  get  my 
camera,  and  returned  to  the  same  spot,  but  did  not 
at  first  see  my  quarry.     I  glanced  over  the  side  of  the 
breakwater  and  saw  three  young  mink  playing  or  fishing 
on  the  end  of  some  piles  near  the  edge  of  the  water. 
I  set  my  camera  for  a  six-foot  focus,  and,  keeping  out  of 
sight,  sneaked  along  until  I  got  opposite  and  just  above 
the  point  where  they  were  playing,  and  peered  cautiously 
over  the  edge.     The  mink  were  there,   but  they  saw 
me  before  I  had  time  to  get  the  camera  pointed  down 
at  them,  and  ducked  out  of  sight.     I  stood  perfectly 
still  and  just  watched.     In  a  few  seconds  one  stuck 
his    head    out,    spied    me,    and    ducked    again.     Then 
another  one  stuck  his  head  out  a  little  way  and  whisked 
back  out  of  sight  before  I  could  snap  the  camera.     A 
third  darted  out  in  another  place.     I  tried  my  best  to 

78 


I.  —  ONE    OF    THE    LITTLE    CHAPS    POKED    HIS    HEAD    OUT. 


2.  — HE    CREPT    CLOSER. 


To  face  p.  78. 


"  Tolling '   Wild  Animals 

get  the  camera  focussed  on  any  one  of  them,  but  they 
were  too  quick  and  wary. 

I  suddenly  thought  of  the  Nowe  method  that  I  had 
recently  heard  of,  and  decided  to  see  if  I  could  excite 
their  curiosity  so  that  they  would  come  and  keep  still 
long  enough  for  me  to  take  their  pictures.  I  had  heard 
mink  squeal  when  they  were  in  a  trap  or  in  a  fight,  and 
believed  that  I  could  imitate  closely  that  particular 
sound,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  me  a  practical  thing  for 
enticing  the  youngsters  into  view.  After  pondering 
a  moment,  I  took  a  bunch  of  keys  out  of  my  pocket  and 
tinkled  them  like  ringing  a  bell.  I  peeped  over  the  edge 
of  the  breakwater,  and  three  curious  little  heads  ducked 
back  under  the  logs.  I  held  the  bunch  of  keys  in  the 
sunlight  and  tinkled  them  again.  Three  little  heads 
immediately  popped  into  view.  So  long  as  I  tinkled 
the  keys  and  held  them  where  they  could  be  seen,  the 
mink  seemed  to  be  fascinated,  darting  in  and  out  between 
the  logs  while  working  their  way  nearer  and  nearer. 
Finally  one  little  fellow  stuck  his  head  out  from  under 
the  logs  just  beneath  my  feet.  So,  holding  the  keys 
dangling  from  my  finger,  I  aimed  the  camera  and  took 
a  snap. 

As  it  was  an  awkward  place  from  which  to  try  for 
another  photo,  I  resolved  to  see  if  I  could  coax  any  one 
of  the  small  family  out  into  the  bright  sunshine  on  the 
top  of  the  breakwater.  I  tiptoed  back  to  the  hole  in 
the  plank  where  I  had  first  seen  the  mink,  held  the 
camera  ready,  and  jingled  the  keys.  I  was  fully  thirty 
feet  away  from  the  point  where  the  mink  had  been  playing 
and  where  I  took  the  first  picture.  In  a  minute  or  two 
all  three  mink  popped  out  of  the  hole  in  the  planking, 
saw  me,  and  scurried  to  cover.  I  was  so  anxious  to  get 
a  picture  of  the  entire  family  that  I  missed  my  chance 
of  snapping  two  that  showed  for  an  instant  in  the  finder. 

79 


With  Gun      >  Rod  in  Canada 


Every  time  that  I  would  jingle  the  keys  the  little 
animals  would  pop  out  in  some  new  spot,  so  I  focussed 
the  camera  as  near  as  I  could  on  the  nearest  hole  in  the 
planking,  and  kept  jingling  the  keys  and  waiting.  In  a 
few  seconds  one  of  the  little  chaps  poked  his  head  out, 
and  I  took  picture  No.  I,  here  shown.  He  seemed  to 
be  fascinated  by  the  sun  shining  on  the  metal-work 
of  the  camera,  or  the  jingle  of  the  keys,  and  he  crawled 
out  a  little  farther.  I  took  picture  No.  2.  Then 
I  leaned  over  and  held  the  camera  as  close  to  him  as 
I  could  without  stepping  forward,  and  he  crept  out  to 
within  three  feet  of  the  lens.  I  took  a  picture  so  close 
that  it  was  out  of  focus.  Winding  the  film  between  the 
pictures  did  not  seem  to  frighten  him.  He  acted  as 
though  he  was  unconsciously  drawn  toward  the  camera. 
After  I  snapped  the  fourth,  picture  he  crept  up  to  within 
six  inches  of  the  toe  of  my  shoe.  I  could  have  picked 
him  up  in  my  hands,  but  I  did  not  care  to  risk  a  bite,  as  a 
mink's  teeth  can  make  a  nasty  and  even  dangerous  wound. 
A  sudden  movement  of  my  foot  seemed  to  bring  him  out 
of  his  trance,  and  he  scurried  out  of  sight. 

While  this  performance  was  going  on  the  other  two 
members  of  the  family  were  dodging  in  and  out  of  the 
broken  planking,  and  seemed  much  interested  in  the 
temerity  of  their  courageous  brother. 

The  above  experience  has  changed  my  views  as  to 
the  possibility  of  "  tolling  "  wild  animals. 


80 


Small  Boat  Wrinkles 

NEARLY  every  young   man  who  lives  near  the 
water  is  fascinated  by  power-driven  craft,   and 
sooner  or  later  becomes  either  part  owner  or  one 
of  the  crew  of  a  power  boat.     If  a  young  man,  or  group 
of  them  for  that  matter,  wishes  to  be  a  boat-owner,  he 
will  usually  arrange  it  some  way.     Almost  any  old  kind 
of  a  hull  will  do  for  beginners,  and  nearly  any  kind  of  an 
engine  that  can  be  coaxed  into  more  or  less  regular 
explosions  will  suffice  to  drive  her. 

When  one  observes  the  combinations  that  amateurs 
risk  their  lives  in,  it  makes  one  marvel  at  the  comparatively 
few  breakdowns  and  accidents  which  are  reported.  It 
is  not  my  intention  to  discourage  the  neophyte  in  the 
power-boat  game,  but  quite  the  contrary.  He  is  moving 
in  the  right  direction  the  minute  he  becomes  interested 
in  any  kind  of  a  mechanically  propelled  boat.  But  a 
few  hints  as  to  how  to  install  an  engine,  and  what  he 
should  try  to  achieve  in  fitting  up  a  hull,  may  help  him 
to  better  and  safer  practice,  without  having  to  learn  it 
all  from  experience. 

Away,  away  back  in  the  last  century  I  built  my  first 
power  boat,  and  am  not  so  darned  old  at  that.  It  was 
twenty  inches  long  and  contained  as  a  power  plant  an 
expurgated  alarm-clock  works,  turning  a  shaft  made  out 
of  an  old  buttonhook,  upon  the  outboard  end  of  which 
was  riveted  a  little  tin  propeller.  This  little  power  boat 
could  speed  over  the  surface  of  our  local  frog-pond  in  a 
most  satisfactory  manner,  much  to  the  delight  of  the 
other  regular  American  boys  of  the  neighbourhood. 

81  F 


With  Gun     ?  Rod  in  Canada 


The  internal  combustion  engine  was  then  only  an 
impractical,  half-perfected  invention,  sneered  at  by  the 
steamboat  men  and  unnoticed  by  yachtsmen.  A  few 
years  later,  while  on  a  summer  vacation  at  Bath,  Maine, 
I  became,  by  virtue  of  certain  "  magic  "  which  I  employed, 
the  only  successful  engineer  of  a  "  Globe  "  gasolene 
engine,  installed  in  a  converted  steam-launch.  Just 
what  I  did  to  make  that  engine  run,  I  do  not  know,  nor 
do  I  believe  that  even  at  that  time  I  was  quite  sure  of  the 
whys  and  wherefores  of  its  mechanics. 

For  several  years  following  I  spent  each  summer  tinker- 
ing with  other  engines  in  all  sorts  of  makeshift  converted 
sail  and  steam  hulls.  In  1903,  having  reached  man's 
estate,  I  had  a  small  launch  built  in  Chester,  Nova  Scotia, 
in  which  I  installed  a  kerosene  engine,  built  in  Stamford, 
Conn.  This  venture  was  a  very  expensive  joke.  I 
used  to  have  to  heat  up  a  hot  tube  to  get  the  engine 
started,  and,  in  order  to  keep  it  going,  had  to  hold  a 
gas  torch,  full  blast,  against  the  tube  most  of  the  time. 
My  brothers  afterwards  converted  this  kerosene  engine 
into  a  gasolene  engine,  and  used  it  for  sawing  wood. 

I  jumped  out  of  this  venture  into  becoming  part  owner 
of  a  regular  55-foot  steam-yacht.  The  most  regular 
thing  about  the  latter  were  the  bills  of  expense  in  con- 
nection therewith.  After  changing  her  type  of  boiler 
three  times,  we  finally  junked  her  machinery  and  installed 
a  two-cycle,  three-cylinder  gasolene  engine.  After  one 
year's  operation  we  junked  this  outfit  and  installed  an 
up-to-date  Sterling  50  horse-power,  heavy-duty  affair 
with  all  the  fixings. 

Coincident  with  the  rather  expensive  and  time- 
consuming  experiences  with  the  big  boat,  I  was  having 
my  real  power-boat  fun  with  much  smaller  but  sea- 
worthy one-man  power  craft.  Five  years  in  Toronto  gave 
me  an  opportunity  to  get  a  touch  of  the  speed-boat 

82 


Small  Boat  Wrinkles 

mania,  but  I  always  seemed  to  get  back  to  the  small, 
sturdy  fisherman  type  of  power  boat  when  I  wanted  to 
have  a  regular  cruise  or  excitement  in  the  big  water, 
either  salt  or  fresh. 

The  boat  I  am  showing  in  the  picture  is  the  best  all- 
round  power  boat  that  I  ever  had.  It  is  a  little  Seabright 
lapstreak  dory,  21  feet  6  inches  over  all,  copper-fastened, 
built  at  Long  Branch,  N.J.,  where,  as  they  have  no 
harbours,  they  must  land  their  fish  through  the  surf 
right  on  the  beach.  She  is  fitted  with  a  7  horse-power 
Model  T  Gray  two-cycle  engine.  The  boat  was  shipped 
to  Toronto,  where  her  deck  and  coamings  were  added; 
her  engine  and  other  fittings  were  installed  there,  and 
I  used  her  for  four  years  on  Lake  Ontario  for  cruising, 
hunting,  etc.  Then  I  shipped  her  to  Nova  Scotia, 
and  she  became  a  hunting  launch  at  my  camp  on  Lake 
Rossignol. 

Her  shallow  draught  and  seaworthiness  made  her  ideal 
for  this  rough  and  rocky  lake.  Then  she  was  taken  to 
salt  water  at  Port  Medway,  and  I  used  her  the  entire 
season  of  1918,  cruising  on  the  Nova  Scotian  coast.  If 
there  is  any  rougher  coast  (or  rougher  sea)  than  the 
North  Atlantic  off  the  north-eastern  corner  of  this 
continent,  the  salt-water  sailors  have  not  yet  discovered 
it.  The  dory  is  still  perfectly  sound,  tight  as  a  bottle, 
and  as  I  write  this  article  early  in  May,  is  ready  to  go 
overboard  for  another  season  of  strenuous  salt-water 
work. 

SEVEN  YEARS  OF  HARD  SERVICE. 

If  the  reader  will  bear  in  mind  that  all  the  apparatus 
and  arrangement  thereof  in  connection  with  this  little 
craft  have  been  subjected  to  steady  and  consistent  hard 
work  in  both  salt  and  fresh  water  for  a  period  of  seven 

83 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

years,  it  will  perhaps  give  him  confidence  in  the  informa- 
tion contained  herein,  and  make  him  feel  that  the 
suggestions  do  not  arise  from  cranky  ideas  nor  trifling 
notions. 

The  boat  is  so  arranged  and  rigged  that  she  cannot 
sink;  her  engine  cannot  get  wet;  in  case  of  a  breakdown 
she  can  be  rowed,  sculled,  or  sailed;  her  cushions  are  all 
life-preservers ;  she  can  carry  enough  water  and  pro- 
visions for  four  men  for  three  weeks;  she  has  a  cruising 
radius  of  160  miles;  carries  marine  compass,  charts  in 
a  water-tight  chart-box,  power  bilge-pump,  75  fathoms 
of  anchor  rope,  and  an  anchor  strong  enough  to  hold 
her  in  any  sea.  She  has  a  tiller  as  well  as  a  wheel, 
centreboard,  fog-horn,  and  weed-hook;  the  engine  is  a 
one-lunger,  with  dry  battery,  and  high-tension  magneto 
system  of  ignition;  her  batteries  are  contained  in  a 
water-tight  box  tucked  up  under  the  rail  inside  the 
engine-room,  above  all  possibility  of  getting  wet. 


IGNITION  SYSTEM  is  WATERPROOF. 

The  high-tension  kw.  magneto  is  chain-driven  from 
the  shaft,  and  sits  upon  a  thwart  in  a  water-tight  box 
with  a  hinge  cover,  just  aft  of  the  engine-house ;  the 
wires  are  all  properly  insulated  and  kept  well  up  off 
the  bottom  of  the  boat;  the  pan  under  the  fly-wheel 
is  raised  half  an  inch  above  the  floorboards,  so  that  water 
running  on  the  floor  cannot  run  into  the  pan  and  be 
thrown  around  by  the  fly-wheel,  with  a  chance  of  wetting 
the  ignition;  it  is  impossible  for  the  strainer  on  the 
bilge-pump  suction  to  become  clogged  owing  to  the 
very  large  surface  of  this  strainer;  the  muffler  and  exhaust 
pipe  are  large  enough  in  diameter  so  that  part  of  the 
circulating  water  can  be  diverted  for  condensing  exhaust 
gases,  and  they  are  properly  insulated  with  asbestos 


I. — THE    SEAT    AND    ENGINE    PLAN    OF    THE    DORY,    AND    FULL    EQUIPMENT    OF 
LIFE-PRESERVER    CUSHIONS,    OARS,    SPARE    TILLER,    ETC. 


2. — AFTER  END  OF  ENGINE-ROOM, 
SHOWING  WATER-TIGHT  BATTERY 
BOX,  TWO  TERMINAL  SPARK-PLUGS 
AND  DOUBLE  THROW  SWITCH. 


3. ARRANGEMENT         OF         ROWLOCK 

UNDER        THE         RUDDER-YOKE — MAY 
BE  USED  FOR  STEERING  OR  SCULLING. 


4. — FORWARD      END      OF       ENGINE-ROOM,      SHOWING      WATERPROOF      TOOL-BOX 
ON    LEFT,    AND    BILGE   PUMP    SETTING. 

To  face  p.  84 


Small  Boat  Wrinkles 

wherever  they  touch  any  wood;  the  friction-wheel  on 
the  bilge-pump  is  served  with  rawhide  belt-lacing 
over  the  usual  rubber  tyre  (this  gives  a  great  wearing 
surface);  the  belt-lacing  is  saturated  with  a  waterproof 
sticky  belt-dressing  before  being  wound  on  the  friction- 
wheel,  so  that  it  will  still  run  and  drive  the  bilge-pump, 
even  though  the  fly-wheel  has  been  drenched  with  spray 
from  a  breaking  sea  or  rain. 

A  full  complement  of  tools  is  carried  in  a  waterproof 
tool-box  inside  the  engine-house,  also  well  up  off  the 
floor  and  clear  of  water;  both  spring-bottom  oil  and 
priming  can  are  carried  inside  the  engine-house  in  a 
handy  holder  on  a  little  shelf. 


A  STUDY  OF  BALLAST. 

If  it  is  at  all  possible  to  avoid  it,  never  select  a  hull 
that  has  to  carry  ballast  to  keep  her  in  trim,  other  than 
the  driving  machinery.  Nearly  any  hull  has  wood  enough 
in  it  to  float  the  engine  and  act  as  a  life-raft  for  the 
passengers  (with  the  exception  of  the  high-speed 
craft). 

It  is  wise  to  have  the  boat  sheathed  inside,  from  the  rail 
right  down  to  the  floor,  so  that  lighted  matches  cannot 
be  carelessly  dropped  into  the  oil  or  gaseous  bilge-water. 

Endless  precautions  might  be  written  down,  but  the 
photos  depict  the  more  important  wrinkles  conducive 
to  safety  and  pleasure  in  power  boating.  Where  I 
believe  that  speed  boats  furnish  the  most  fascinating 
form  of  sport  outside  of  flying,  I  get  more  gratification  out 
of  a  look,  word,  or  nod  of  approval  from  a  regular  old- 
time  salt-water  sailor  when  he  inspects  my  dory  than 
I  would  from  the  plaudits  of  thousands  when  crossing 
the  finish-line  in  a  fifty-mile-an-hour  "  go-devil." 

85 


With  Gun     P  Rod  in  Canada 


KNOWING  WHAT  TO  Do. 

In  conclusion,  it  were  well  to  remember  that  deep 
waters  or  high  winds  are  no  respecters  of  persons  nor 
trade-marks  on  engines.  And  it  is  oftentimes  fully  as 
important  to  know  how  to  pick  up  from  the  deck  two 
half-hitches  with  one  hand  as  it  is  to  use  a  monkey- 
wrench. 


86 


Shooting  a  Grizzly  with  a 
Coffee- Pot 

IN  August,  1901,   I  started  from  the  little  town  of 
Vernal,  Uintah  County,  Utah,   situated   in  Ashley 
Valley,  accompanied  by  a  young  guide  of  the  faith 
by  the  name  of  David.     We  were  going  hunting,  and 
incidentally  to  visit  the  old  Dead  Man  Mine  way  up  on 
the  north  side  of  Baldy  Mountain,  some  one  hundred 
miles  from  town.     The  abandoned  mine  was  located 
just  below  snow-line,  and  had  an  elevation  of  ten  thousand 
feet. 

David  was  a  very  quiet  boy  with  a  pleasant  disposition; 
a  first-class  prospector,  guide,  and  hunter.  He  had  a 
crippled  hand.  From  his  mild  and  retiring  personality 
one  would  conjecture  that  he  might  have  crippled  that 
hand  in  his  mother's  sewing-machine,  or  perhaps  jammed 
it  in  the  cellar-door.  I  learned  later  that  he  carried 
this  deformity  as  a  result  of  performing  some  of  his 
duties  as  deputy-sheriff,  particularly  while  persuading 
a  couple  of  outlaws  to  accompany  him  to  jail.  I  also 
learned  that  one  went  to  jail  and  the  other  to  the  ceme- 
tery. Uintah  County  in  the  old  days  was  a  nice  isolated 
place  to  live  in,  and  an  unostentatious  place  in  which 
to  die.  As  intimated  above,  however,  you  would  never 
guess  from  appearances  that  David  had  any  notches 
on  his  gun. 

With  the  white  cap  of  Baldy  Mountain  gleaming  in  the 
noon  sunshine,  we  left  the  old  Government  trail,  and 
turning  sharply  to  the  north-west  rode  up  a  long  draw, 

87 


With  Gun  £r>  Rod  in  Canada 


or  canyon,  to  the  edge  of  a  mesa,  made  a  lunch  camp 
beside  a  mountain  torrent,  hobbled  the  horses  and 
turned  them  out  to  feed.  Packing  up  after  lunch,  we 
crossed  a  most  beautiful  grassy  park  on  top  of  this  table- 
land. It  was  a  vast  undulating  sea  of  grass  with  clumps 
of  cedars  here  and  there,  like  ships  riding  at  anchor. 

Toward  night  David  said  we  were  in  a  fine  deer 
country,  and  should  soon  begin  to  see  elk,  and  bear 
tracks  as  well.  We  camped  that  night  on  the  northern 
edge  of  the  mesa,  and  next  morning  travelled  down  a 
short  canyon  partially  wooded  with  quaking-asp  and 
cottonwoods.  There  was  a  good  footing  for  the  horses, 
but  no  fresh  tracks  were  in  sight.  By  noon  we  were 
making  elevation  again  at  every  mile.  We  were  in  the 
foothills  of  Baldy  Mountain.  Hardly  half  a  mile  from 
our  camp-fire  the  hoof-prints  of  a  bunch  of  ponies 
came  into  our  trail,  going  also  toward  our  objective. 
David  said  they  belonged  to  a  bunch  of  Uintah  Utes 
going  on  a  deer-hunt.  He  explained  to  me  that  the 
Ute  Indians  made  a  sort  of  general  holiday  of  their 
hunting.  All  went  on  horseback  spread  out  in  a  great 
half-moon,  sometimes  stretching  for  a  couple  of  miles, 
with  the  object  of  driving  deer  or  other  game  before 
them  into  the  mouth  of  some  blind  canyon,  or  draw. 
In  that  way  they  could  be  more  certain  of  getting  them 
than  by  individual  hunting.  Our  chance  of  getting 
any  game  short  of  the  snow-line  on  Baldy  Mountain 
seemed  pretty  slim.  As  the  tracks  we  were  following 
were  hardly  two  days  old,  we  would  likely  run  into  this 
bunch  of  Indians  sometime  within  twenty-four  hours. 

About  the  middle  of  the  next  afternoon  we  came 
up  to  their  camp.  I  first  saw  it  from  the  top  of  a  little 
knoll  in  the  foothills,  and  it  was  in  the  distance  a  most 
picturesque  sight.  There  were  perhaps  a  dozen  wig- 
wams pitched  on  the  side  of  a  "  creek  "  (even  a  mountain 


Shooting  a  Grizzly 

torrent  is  known  as  a  "  creek  "  among  the  Mormons). 
There  were  ponies  and  dogs,  and  papooses  and  squaws, 
scattered  indiscriminately  over  the  landscape.  The 
wigwams,  covered  with  different  shades  of  deer  and  elk 
hides,  old  pieces  of  canvas  and  tattered  blankets,  and 
a  few  burlap  bags  thrown  in  for  good  measure,  gave  a 
crazy  quilt  effect  in  the  blue,  late  afternoon  atmosphere. 
It  really  would  have  made  a  colourful  and  interesting 
painting  for  a  Remington  to  extend  himself  upon. 

Personally  I  never  yet  saw  a  picture  of  an  Indian  camp 
that  seemed  real.  One  misses  the  smell  so.  When  we 
were  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  a  gentle,  evening  north- 
west breeze  drifted  indolently  and  carelessly  among  the 
tepees,  and  thence  wafted  the  perfume  toward  our 
ungrateful  and  misunderstanding  nostrils. 

"  Gosh,  David !  what's  that  awful  smell  ?  There 
must  be  something  dead  around  here  !" 

"  Them's  Indians,  pardner.  They  don't  stink  half  as 
bad  when  they're  dead  as  when  they're  alive." 

Dave  said  this  with  a  perfectly  serious  face,  and  I 
wondered  if  he  referred  to  the  old  adage  that  the  only 
good  Indian  is  a  dead  Indian,  and  if  it  applied  to  the 
Indian  smell  as  well  as  to  his  life. 

With  my  olfactory  nerves  tremendously  disciplined, 
I  accompanied  Dave  into  the  camp.  He  dismounted, 
but  I  did  not.  At  his  suggestion  I  had  caught  up  the 
pack-mare  and  led  it  with  a  turn  of  the  larigo  attached 
to  the  hackamore  around  the  horn  of  my  saddle.  Indian 
kids  sometimes,  slyly  assisted  by  their  elders,  would 
jokingly  stampede  a  well-packed  animal,  and  before 
you  could  find  your  pack-horse,  the  diamond-  or  loop- 
hitch  would  become  strangely  unfastened,  the  contents 
of  the  pack  or  panniers  might  be  scattered  among  the 
rocks  and  underbrush,  and  although  the  papooses,  squaws, 
and  even  bucks  would  help  scour  the  country  for  your 


With  Gun         Rod  in  Canada 


goods  and  chattels,  they  would  be  curiously  inefficient 
when  it  came  to  finding  things  and  bringing  them  to 
you.  The  inevitable  blanket,  so  nonchalantly  worn  by 
all  classes  of  Ute  Indians  when  not  actually  fighting, 
dancing,  or  hunting,  always  struck  me  as  a  convenient 
place  for  concealing  other  people's  possessions. 

Dave  held  council  with  the  Chief  in  the  Ute  language, 
and  after  proffering  a  chew  of  tobacco,  which  was 
readily  accepted,  mounted  his  horse  and  joined  me. 

The  Utes  had  huge  smoke  fires  going,  and  hundreds 
of  pounds  of  venison  strung  upon  baling  wire  in  the 
dense  fumes.  The  Chief  told  David  they  had  had  good 
hunting,  and  had  killed  some  forty  blacktail  in  a  steep 
blind  canyon,  the  mouth  of  which  showed  to  the  south 
about  half  a  mile  beyond  the  camp. 

We  rode  straight  on  to  the  north-west,  following  an 
old  creek  bed  up  Baldy  Mountain.  Toward  night  the 
going  began  to  get  steep.  There  was  no  marked  trail. 
Our  path  was  interspersed  with  rocky  stretches  covered 
with  quaking-asp  and  beautiful  little  open  grassy 
meadows,  or  parks,  as  the  Mormons  call  them.  We 
camped  that  night  beside  a  crystal  mountain  pool,  my 
aneroid  barometer  showing  an  elevation  of  five  thousand 
five  hundred  feet.  The  feed  was  excellent  for  the 
horses.  There  were  fresh  elk  tracks,  and  although  the 
night  was  cool,  it  was  clear  and  not  windy.  We  did  not 
hobble  the  horses,  as  Dave  said  they  would  not  leave 
the  good  level  feeding-ground  of  the  park  for  the  rough 
country  we  had  quit.  I  have  noted  that  when  packing 
through  the  mountains  of  the  West,  as  you  make  altitude 
and  get  into  a  country  strange  to  your  horses,  they  are 
more  dependent  upon  their  masters,  and  are  not  so  apt 
to  stray  far  from  the  camp-fire.  It  may  be  they  feel 
the  need  of  the  protection  of  human  beings,  as  it  is  in 
these  mountains  that  both  the  grizzly  bear  and  cougar 

90 


Shooting  a  Grizzly 

have  their  homes.  There  is  no  doubt  that  a  grizzly 
will  attack  a  horse  if  he  can  get  the  opportunity.  Burros 
and  colts  are  often  victims  of  the  cougar.  Whether  the 
latter  would  have  the  temerity  to  attack  a  full-grown 
horse,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say. 

Dave   caught   seven   or   eight   little   speckled   trout, 
which  we  had  for  supper. 

Speaking  of  the  supper  we  ate  that  night  reminds  me 
of  all  the  other  meals  upon  that  trip,  and  makes  me 
appreciate  the  wonderful  luxury  of  the  grub  we  eat  in 
Nova  Scotia  compared  to  what  we  packed  in  the  old 
days.     Our  complete  menu  consisted  of  flour,  salt  pork, 
baking-powder,   coffee,   sugar,   salt,   a  few  onions  and 
half  a  dozen  cans  of  tomatoes.     The  tomatoes  were 
only  to  be  used  if  we  got  short  of  water  while  crossing 
the  Bad  Lands,  which  border  the  Rocky  Mountains 
upon  this  particular  part  of  the  American  continent. 
The  juice  in  a  can  of  tomatoes  is  better  to  drink  when 
suffering  from  thirst  than  the  best  water  you  can  pack 
in  a  canteen.     Owing  to  the  can  having  no  opening 
except  what  you  make  with  your  knife,  it  is  never  used 
except  as  a  last  resort,  and  consequently  the  juice  is  not 
idly  sipped  at  as  the  water  is  apt  to  be  when  in  a  screw- 
top   canteen.     The  old-timers   told  me   that  many   a 
man's  life  had  been  saved  through  this  habit  of  carry- 
ing canned  tomatoes  for  an  emergency.     My  personal 
experience  bears  this  out.     You  will  gather  from  the 
limited  store  of  provisions  we  carried  that  every  meal 
consisted  of  baking-powder  bread  made  in  the  frying- 
pan,  salt  pork,  black  coffee,  and  such  meat  or  fish  as  we 
happened  to  kill  along  the  way.     At  times  we  picked  and 
ate  various  kinds  of  berries.     As  strange  as  it  may  seem 
to  the  pampered  guide  and  "  sport  "  of  the  East,  frying- 
pan  bread,  fried  pork  and  coffee  tasted  good  three  times 
a  day  and  every  day  in  the  week.     Mountain  air  might 

91 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

have  had  something  to  do  with  it.  If  our  friend,  the 
sauce-maker  of  "  57  varieties  "  of  fame,  could  bottle 
some  Rocky  Mountain  air  and  sell  it  for  the  sharpening 
of  the  jaded  Eastern  appetite,  he  could  discard  the 
original  "  57,"  and,  calling  the  new  mixture  "  Oxy- 
nitrogen  Piquant  a  la  Rocky  Mountain,"  double  his 
sales. 

The  next  day  we  climbed  slowly  toward  snow-line, 
hunting  as  we  went,  leading  our  horses  much  of  the  time, 
and  using  our  field-glasses  where  the  country  was  open 
enough.  After  lunch  we  espied  one  small  band  of 
sheep  on  a  shoulder  of  Baldy  Mountain  itself,  but  they 
were  too  far  off  to  shoot  at  or  go  after.  This  night  we 
camped  under  one  of  the  ridges,  making  the  fire  on  the 
edge  of  a  snow-water  lake.  This  lake  gave  rise  to  one  of 
the  many  streamlets  or  creeks  fed  by  the  eternal  snows 
of  the  mountain  peak. 

As  we  are  but  slowly  progressing  to  the  incident  of 
the  coffee-pot  and  the  grizzly,  I  am  going  to  continue 
loitering  and  tell  a  fish  story. 

The  tiny  lake  before  our  camp  was  ice-cold  and 
perfectly  clear,  having  a  pebbly  bottom.  It  did  not 
seem  to  be  over  two  feet  deep  and  was  full  of  speckled 
trout.  They  were  so  thick  that  I  thought  at  first  they 
were  suckers.  I  fired  my  six-gun  at  a  big  one  near  the 
surface  and  killed  it.  After  wading  in  and  taking  up 
the  dead  fish  in  my  hands,  and  incidentally  freezing  my 
feet,  I  discovered  I  had  a  most  remarkable  specimen. 
It  was  about  eighteen  inches  long  and  had  all  the  mark- 
ings of  the  Eastern  brook-trout.  But  it  was  the  leanest 
fish  I  had  ever  seen,  being  about  the  same  proportions  as 
a  skinny  pickerel.  In  Dave's  presence  I  cleaned  it  and 
took  from  its  stomach  another  lean-looking  trout,  seven 
or  eight  inches  long.  For  curiosity's  sake  I  cut  this  fish 
open,  and  found  within  it  the  skin  and  bones  of  another 

92 


Shooting  a  Grizzly 

small  trout.  I  imagine  that  if  I  had  had  a  microscope 
I  could  have  gone  on  discovering  fish  of  a  descending 
scale  in  size,  ad  infinitum. 

As  there  were  no  bushes  or  grass  around  the  edge  of 
that  pond  and  no  mud  on  the  bottom,  there  was  no 
feed,  and  these  trout  must  have  lived  and  propagated 
and  cannibalized  since  Adam  threw  away  the  core. 
The  only  outlets  to  the  lake  were  little  rivulets  passing 
through  the  loose  formation  forming  the  bed  of  the 
watercourse  leading  down  the  mountain.  To  add  to 
the  mystery  of  the  phenomenon,  the  water  in  this  pond 
must  have  been  solid  ice  six  months  out  of  the  twelve. 
Dave  said  that  he  knew  for  a  fact  that  the  trout  in  these 
high  altitudes  stayed  in  the  ponds  all  winter  frozen  in 
the  ice,  and  came  to  life  again  in  the  spring.  We  didn't 
cook  the  trout  because  it  did  not  have  flesh  enough  upon 
it  to  warrant  wasting  the  fat  required  for  frying. 

Looking  for  signs  of  spawn  around  the  edge  of  the 
pond  revealed  nothing,  nor  was  there  a  characteristic 
place  for  a  spawning-ground.  If  one  could  judge  by  a 
trout's  teeth,  the  way  you  judge  the  age  of  a  horse, 
the  trout  I  shot  was  a  thousand  years  old. 

Crossing  the  ridge  and  dropping  down  the  other  side, 
a  vast  natural  amphitheatre  or  bowl  stretched  before 
our  eyes,  like  the  crater  of  an  extinct  volcano.  Upon 
the  farther  side  of  the  crater  we  could  distinctly  see  a 
white  quartz  vein  cutting  vertically  down  through  the 
formation,  its  lower  end  being  lost  in  the  accumulation 
of  overburden  in  the  bottom  of  the  crater.  A  turquoise 
lake  a  few  hundred  yards  across,  surrounded  by  deserted 
cabins,  completed  the  picture.  The  sides  of  the  bowl 
were  dotted  with  location  monuments  of  stone.  Dave 
took  me  quite  a  detour  to  pass  one  of  these  close  at 
hand.  Obeying  his  suggestion  to  dismount  and  examine 
this  old  "  stake,"  I  was  interested  to  see  him  kick  out 

93 


With  Gun     r>  Rod  in  Canada 


from  among  the  rocks  a  few  ancient  bleached  bones  and  a 
much  rusted  rifle-barrel. 

Dave  said  that  an  old  prospector  who  was  the  original 
owner  in  fee  simple  of  these  bones  had  been  obsessed 
with  the  idea  that  all  the  other  inmates  of  the  camp 
were  going  to  try  to  jump  his  claim.  Consequently  he 
stayed  on  guard  day  and  night.  When  the  mines  turned 
out  to  be  a  non-paying  proposition  and  the  inhabitants 
had  stampeded  out  of  the  country,  this  old  prospector 
was  convinced  that  it  was  simply  a  ruse  to  lure  him  away 
from  his  claim.  So  he  had  sat  there  untiringly  with  his 
rifle  across  his  knees  to  guard  his  property,  ever  since. 
The  Indians  found  him,  but  being  superstitious  left 
him  alone.  They  named  the  place  "  Dead  Man  Mine." 

Upon  closer  examination  we  found  the  cabins  still 
partly  furnished;  old  rusted  mining  tools  lying  around, 
a  couple  of  blacksmiths'  outfits,  much  moulded  and 
rusted  cases  of  canned  goods,  mice-riddled  blankets, 
cooking  utensils,  etc.  After  a  casual  inspection  one 
would  have  thought  that  the  miners  had  left  the  day 
before  and  were  expected  back  any  moment. 

I  carefully  sampled  such  of  the  quartz  as  I  could  get  at, 
both  on  the  surface  and  in  a  short  tunnel,  quartered 
my  samples  down  to  the  smallest  possible  bulk  for  con- 
venient carrying  on  our  pack-mare;  and  climbing  the 
southern  and  lower  side  of  the  crater,  we  topped  the 
low  ridge,  and  waving  a  farewell  to  the  tenacious  old 
miner,  started  our  descent.  For  two  miles  we  travelled 
down  the  most  treacherous  rock  slides  it  was  ever  my 
bad  fortune  to  encounter.  Then  we  entered  fallen 
timber.  Forest  fires  and  wind  had  made  this  canyon 
almost  impassable  for  anything  but  snakes  and  birds. 

We  dismounted,  and  with  an  axe  in  one  hand  and  reins 
in  the  other,  we  hewed,  scrambled,  crawled,  and  twisted 
through  a  maze  of  giant  jack-straws.  When  it  was 

94 


Shooting  a  Grizzly 

nearly  dark  the  timber  began  to  take  a  more  upright 
position.  To  my  relief  we  came  to  what  Dave  called  an 
"  elk  park."  It  was  a  series  of  small  meadows  with 
bunches  of  cottonwoods  and  quaking-asp  between  them, 
and  fine  grass  for  the  horses.  Elk  tracks  and  elk  beds 
were  all  around  us. 

We  were  too  tired,  scratched,  and  sore  to  hunt.  Un- 
saddling and  unpacking  our  lagging  animals,  we  turned 
them  loose.  I  unstrapped  my  heavy  cartridge-belt 
and  six-shooter  and  hung  them  on  the  branch  of  a  tree, 
glad  to  be  rid  of  the  dangling  weight.  Hearing  the 
gurgle  of  a  mountain  stream  a  little  way  off,  I  picked 
up  the  coffee-pot  and  went  for  water  while  Dave  built 
a  fire  and  opened  the  provisions.  I  walked  perhaps  fifty 
yards  before  coming  to  the  bed  of  the  creek.  The  spring 
torrent  had  washed  away  the  gravel,  leaving  a  little  bank 
a  couple  of  feet  above  the  surface  of  the  brook.  Taking 
the  coffee-pot  by  the  nozzle  and  putting  my  left  arm 
around  a  cottonwood  to  help  me  maintain  my  balance, 
I  reached  down  and  dipped  a  potful  of  water  and  slaked 
my  thirst. 

As  I  was  drinking  I  heard  the  stones  rattling  on  the 
other  side  of  the  brook  behind  some  bushes.  Glancing, 
somewhat  startled,  in  the  direction  of  the  noise,  I 
discerned  a  big  black  shapeless  mass.  It  moved,  then 
growled,  and  believing  it  to  be  a  bear,  and  having  heard 
that  bears  were  timid  when  confronted  by  unexpected 
sights  and  sounds,  I  emitted  a  lusty  yell  and  threw  the 
coffee-pot  full  of  water  at  the  dark  growling  shape. 

Its  identity  was  immediately  established.  It  stood 
up  on  its  hind-legs,  gave  a  most  convincing  snarl,  and 
started  toward  me.  I  started  up  the  tree.  There  were 
no  branches  on  this  old  cottonwood  within  ten  feet  of 
the  ground,  but  I  went  up  that  smooth  trunk  like  an 
electric  shock.  The  interim  between  the  time  I  started 

95 


With  Gun  &>  Rod  in  Canada 

to  climb  and  the  time  I  got  my  legs  over  the  branches 
is  a  very  short  and  hazy  period  in  my  life.  I  have  a 
distinct  recollection,  however,  as  I  pulled  myself  safely 
up  into  the  branches,  of  seeing  the  bear  in  the  brook 
at  the  foot  of  the  tree  just  scrambling  upright.  The  left 
half  of  my  hunting-shirt  was  torn  completely  off,  and 
my  upper  left  arm  was  burning  and  bleeding  badly.  I  do 
not  know  to  this  day  whether  the  bear  had  jumped  and 
made  a  slash  at  me  with  his  paw,  or  whether  my  shirt 
and  arm  were  torn  as  I  climbed  into  the  tree.  Evidently 
the  bear  had  jumped,  and  striking  on  the  edge  of  the 
bank  when  he  came  down,  had  rolled  over  into  the  water. 

Naturally  wishing  to  get  assistance  from  Dave,  I 
yelled  "  Bear !"  at  the  top  of  my  lungs.  He  came 
running  through  the  bushes  with  a  can  in  his  hand. 
It  being  a  great  country  for  bees  and  wild  honey,  he 
thought  I  had  yelled  "  Bees !"  and  was  coming  to  get 
the  honey.  Catching  sight  of  me  in  the  tree  and  the 
bear  beneath  it  at  almost  the  same  instant,  he  made  tracks 
for  his  gun,  touching  only  the  high  spots.  It  is  a  well- 
known  fact  among  hunters  that  the  much-touted  Eastern 
champion  sprinters  really  do  not  hold  the  world's  records. 
The  only  way  that  a  man  can  be  made  to  run  fast  is  to 
have  a  grizzly  chase  him.  The  bear  started  after  Dave, 
but  by  shaking  the  limbs  and  hollering  I  succeeded  in 
attracting  his  attention  to  such  an  extent  that  he  decided 
not  to  leave  the  sure  thing  up  the  tree  for  the  chimerical 
and  flighty  Mormon.  Besides,  I  was  in  good  flesh, 
bleeding  profusely,  and  David  was  quite  scrawny. 

In  a  couple  of  minutes  the  bear  and  I  heard  a  slight 
crackling  in  the  bushes,  toward  which  we  immediately 
turned  our  heads,  only  to  be  startled  by  the  sharp  crack 
of  a  45-70  and  a  blinding  flash.  The  bear  grunted  and 
started  straight  for  the  flash.  Again  I  shouted  and 
shook  the  branches  while  David  did  a  semicircular  sprint. 

96 


Shooting  a  Grizzly 

The  bear  returned  snarling  and  growling  to  the  tree. 
He  reached  up  almost  to  the  lower  branches,  and  with 
a  few  emphatic  pats  of  his  paws  ripped  bark  and  wood 
out  of  that  old  trunk  as  though  it  were  made  of  cheese. 
Then  he  started  to  bite  it.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 
timely  crack  of  my  friend's  rifle  from  another  quarter, 
I  veritably  believe  he  would  have  gnawed  that  tree  down 
in  six  bites. 

The  bear  started  again  for  the  flash  of  the  gun.  After 
jumping  a  few  yards  toward  the  bushes  from  which 
the  bullet  came,  he  fell  down.  I  shook  the  branches 
of  the  tree  again  and  repeated  my  hurrah.  The  bear 
jumped  to  his  feet  and  came  toward  the  tree.  He  was 
limping  badly.  I  could  hear  Dave  make  another  spurt 
through  the  mountain  laurel  to  a  new  point  of  vantage. 
The  way  he  was  running  around  he  must  have  been 
trying  to  make  the  bear  think  that  there  were  five  or 
six  men  firing  at  him.  Again  from  a  bush  the  rifle 
cracked.  This  time  the  bear  squalled  and  rolled  over 
and  over,  trying  to  strike  at  the  small  of  his  back  with 
his  fore-paws.  He  rolled  into  the  water,  then  got  up 
and  gave  himself  a  shake.  Limping  off  over  the  stony 
bed  of  the  brook,  he  finally  disappeared  in  the  bushes  on 
the  other  side.  I  could  hear  him  grumbling  and  whining 
as  he  scrambled  up  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain. 

Fearing  that  a  yell  to  David  would  attract  the  bear's 
attention  and  call  it  back  to  the  tree,  I  gave  a  low  whistle. 
Dave  answered  in  kind,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  appeared 
sneaking  along  as  if  stepping  on  eggs,  with  his  gun  cocked 
and  at  the  ready,  darting  his  sharp  little  eyes  at  every 
corner  in  the  growing  dusk. 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  whispered  David. 

"  He's  gone  up  the  mountain  on  the  other  side,"  I 
replied,  as  I  slid  stiffly  down  the  trunk  of  the  faithful 
cottonwood. 

97  c 


With  Gun  &J>  Rod  in  Canada 


"  My  Gawd  !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  saw  me  bloody 
and  half  denuded.  "  Did  he  take  a  crack  at  yer  ?" 

"  Nothing  serious,"  I  explained,  at  the  same  time 
making  speedy  tracks  for  the  proximity  of  my  own  fire- 
arms. I  decided  then  and  there  never  again  to  be 
without  them  a  second  when  on  the  trail. 

Reaching  the  camp-fire,  which  Dave  had  already 
started,  we  found  the  horses  stampeded,  but  our  grub 
and  outfit  where  we  had  left  them.  Building  up  a  good 
bright  fire,  David  proceeded  to  dress  my  arm  by  the 
simple  process  of  washing  with  cold  water  and  sewing 
up  a  cut  about  two  inches  long  by  half  an  inch  deep, 
square  across  the  left  biceps.  White  linen  thread  and 
a  coarse  needle  which  we  carried  for  "  housewife " 
emergencies  did  the  trick.  After  this  operation  we 
packed  in  plenty  of  dry  fuel,  of  which  there  was  an 
abundance  near  our  camp-fire,  and  after  an  unrelished 
supper  we  stayed  awake  all  night — David,  for  the  purpose 
of  keeping  the  fire,  and  I,  on  account  of  the  pain  in 
my  arm. 

At  daylight  we  started  to  track  the  horses,  my  arm  in 
a  handkerchief  sling,  both  of  us  carrying  rifles.  We 
succeeded  in  rounding  them  up  about  half  a  mile  down 
the  canyon,  at  the  lower  end  of  a  series  of  little  parks, 
and  drove  them  back.  After  hobbling  them  and  having 
lunch,  Dave  suggested  that  we  pull  out  at  once  for 
Vernal,  where  my  arm  could  have  the  attention  of  the 
local  surgeon.  Although  the  wound  was  painful,  its 
being  on  the  left  arm  did  not  incapacitate  me.  But  it 
annoyed  me  just  enough  to  make  me  so  irritated  at  that 
bear  that  I  could  have  eaten  him  raw  if  I  could  have 
come  up  to  him.  I  explained  all  this  to  Dave,  and  he 
finally  consented  to  help  me  hunt  him. 

We  found  his  tracks  where  he  had  crossed  the  brook. 
David  stooped  down  and  picked  up  something.  It  was 


Shooting  a  Grizzly 

the  coffee-pot,  flattened  out  as  if  a  steam-roller  had 
run  over  it.  The  bear  had  bled  a  great  deal,  so  it  was 
not  difficult  to  keep  on  his  trail.  I  fully  expected  to  find 
him  dead  at  any  moment.  We  followed  him  up  the 
mountain  clear  to  snow-line.  When  he  struck  the  snow 
he  evidently  kept  right  on  going.  As  it  was  four  in  the 
afternoon,  we  had  to  give  it  up  and  return  to  camp. 
After  another  painful  night  we  saddled  up  and  started 
down  the  canyon  for  Vernal. 

It  was  about  one  hundred  miles  away.  We  were  on  the 
trail  two  nights  and  three  days. 

The  surgeon  in  Vernal  pulled  out  the  stitches  and 
said  it  was  a  good  job. 

Nova  Scotia  bears  can  climb  trees.  I  often  think  it's 
a  wise  provision  of  Providence  that  they  do  not  combine 
with  this  talent  the  disposition  of  the  Rocky  Mountain 
grizzly. 


99 


Shooting  from  a  Canoe 

THE  fascinating  alliance  of  a  gun,  a  novice,  and  a 
canoe  is  perhaps  the  cause  of  more  amusement  and, 
often  enough,  of  more  accidents  than  almost  any 
other  combination.     Shooting  from  a  gunning-float,  or 
a  sink-box,  is  one  thing,  and  shooting  from  a  canoe, 
as  Abe  would  say  to  Mawruss,  "  is  yet  something  else 
again." 

A  gunning-float,  or  sink-box,  is  primarily  for  the 
purpose  of  hiding  as  much  as  possible  of  the  sportsman's 
body  from  the  game,  which  arrangement  necessitates 
a  very  low  centre  of  gravity  and  comparatively  little 
danger  of  capsizing  from  over-sudden  motions  or  the 
recoil  of  the  gun.  Also,  the  sink-box,  or  gunning-float, 
are  special  types  of  craft  used  more  for  shooting  than 
for  navigating.  As  the  canoe  is  the  sportsman's  common 
type  of  craft  for  conveyance  on  the  fresh-water  high- 
ways and  byways  of  eastern  United  States  and  Canada, 
and  as  it  is  seldom  convenient  to  use,  or  in  fact  have 
available,  specialities  in  boats  when  far  from  civilization, 
it  were  well  for  the  amateur  to  be  mindful  of  the  danger 
as  well  as  the  convenience  of  using  a  canoe  for  gunning 
purposes.  Being  expert  with  a  gun  does  not  necessarily 
carry  with  it  expert  handling  of  the  same  when  a  sports- 
man is  doing  his  first  shooting  from  a  canoe.  The 
writer  has  seen  fully  as  many  dangerous  mistakes  made 
by  good  wing-shots  when  attempting  to  shoot  from  the 
bow  of  a  canoe  as  those  made  by  rank  amateurs  with 
both  utensils.  A  ducking  in  ice-cold  water  may  or  may 
not  be  enjoyed  by  a  sportsman,  depending  largely  upon 

100 


I.  —  DON'T    LEAN    BACKWARDS — THE    RECOIL    IS    LIABLE  TO  TIP 
YOU    OVER. 


2. — DON'T    TURN    ROUND    AND    SIT    UP    IN    THE    BOW. 


3.  —  IT     IS    DANGEROUS     TO    KNEEL    UP 
IN    THIS    POSITION. 


4.  — THIS    IS    SAFER. 

To  face  p.  100 


Shooting  from  a  Canoe 

his  love  for  the  aqueous  element  and  the  time  of  year. 
But,  of  a  certainty,  it  is  hard  upon  shells,  blankets,  guns, 
cameras,  and  grub,  to  say  nothing  of  the  patient  and 
ruminant  guide.  To  avoid  unpleasant  experiences, 
such  as  are  suggested  above,  a  little  forethought  and 
study  of  the  accompanying  pictures  may  help  those  who 
anticipate  canoeing  and  gunning  simultaneously. 

When  hunting  in  the  eastern  part  of  Canada  and  the 
United  States,  a  mixed  bag  is  more  entertaining  and 
better  to  seek  for  the  sportsman  with  a  short  vacation 
period  than  specializing  on  some  particular  kind  of 
game.  The  canoe,  being  silently  propelled  (when 
expertly  handled)  and,  if  painted  grey,  having  low 
visibility,  is  the  ideal  craft  for  a  hunter-voyageur.  A 
shotgun,  rifle,  trout-rod,  camera,  and  a  skilful  guide 
are  a  symposium  that  will  assure  a  sportsman  an  interest- 
ing day,  always  provided  that  the  above  adjuncts  are 
carefully  and  correctly  manipulated.  Otherwise  it 
would  be  better  for  a  sportsman  to  blunder  along  in  a 
boat  or  go  hunting  afoot. 

A  canoe  is  a  surprisingly  stable  craft  when  its  occupants 
are  kneeling  in  the  bottom,  half  sitting  upon  and  half 
leaning  against  the  thwarts.  But  when  one  or  both  of 
the  passengers  are  sitting  upon  the  thwarts,  the  centre 
of  gravity  is  too  high  for  safety.  In  spite  of  the  fact 
that  much  canoeing  is  done  in  this  way  without  accident, 
it  is  neither  the  proper  nor  the  best  way  to  use  a  canoe. 
Where  stiff  joints  or  bulk  make  it  essential  to  sit  on  the 
forward  thwart  or  seat,  the  guide  would  naturally  take 
the  kneeling  position,  and  by  so  doing  halve  the  risk 
of  tipping  over.  Where  a  sportsman  can  kneel  down 
in  the  bottom  with  comparative  comfort,  he  should 
accustom  himself  to  this  position. 

The  hulls  of  these  useful  craft  are  purposely  built  of 
the  lightest  fabric  so  they  may  be  portaged  with  the 

101 


With  Gun     ?  Rod  in  Canada 


least  amount  of  labour.  This  light  weight  combined 
with  an  exceedingly  shallow  draught  is  responsible  for  the 
canoe's  unstability  as  well  as  its  fragility.  A  sportsman 
should  remember  to  wear  rubber-soled  shoes,  or  mocca- 
sins, out  of  respect  for  this  very  frailty  that  makes  a 
canoe  so  desirable  in  shallow  waters  and  over  long 
portages.  When  stepping  in,  be  sure  that  the  canoe 
is  resting  upon  the  water  and  not  upon  the  rocks,  as  a 
sharp  stone  or  snag  can  easily  puncture  the  canvas  and 
light  sheathing  of  the  hull.  When  once  in,  keep  down, 
keep  in  the  middle,  and  keep  as  quiet  as  possible.  So 
much  for  embarkation. 

Stow  the  guns  forward  with  the  butts  in  the  bottom 
of  the  canoe  and  the  barrels  pointing  over  the  gunwales 
forward.  Never  stow  a  gun  so  that  the  muzzle  points 
either  at  the  bottom  of  the  canoe  or  at  its  sides.  Do 
not  stow  the  gun  behind  you  so  that  you  have  to  pull  it 
forward  by  the  barrel,  with  the  possibility  of  the  lock 
or  trigger  catching  on  some  of  the  duffle  and  perhaps 
discharging  it  inopportunely;  nor  so  that  you  have  to 
pull  it  toward  you  by  the  stock,  with  the  chance  of 
shooting  your  guide.  Do  not  hold  a  gun  in  your  hands 
with  the  muzzle  pointing  into  the  bow  or  bottom  of  the 
canoe.  Accidental  discharge  when  held  in  this  position 
means  at  the  very  least  the  thorough  wetting  of  the  cargo 
and  a  possible  swamping  far  from  shore. 

In  making  side-shots  at  flying  birds,  do  not  attempt 
to  swing  the  whole  body  towards  the  birds,  but  only 
the  trunk  from  the  waist  up,  turning  as  on  a  pivot  and 
keeping  the  centre  of  the  body  exactly  over  the  canoe's 
keel.  It  is  easier  to  fire  a  shot  to  the  left  than  to  the 
right  without  upsetting  the  canoe.  When  right-hand 
shots  have  to  be  made,  the  guide  should  swing  the  boat 
sharply  towards  the  birds,  thus  enabling  the  sportsman 
to  take  an  easier  and  more  natural  position  than  would 

102 


I.— NEVER    POINT    A    COCKED    GUN    INTO    THE     HULL    OF    THE    CANOE. 


2. — ILLUSTRATES     THE     CORRECT     WAY     TO     CARRY     A     OCX     WHEN     SHOOTING 
FROM    A    CANOE. 


To  face  p.   102 


Shooting  from  a  Canoe 

be  possible  otherwise.  If  a  sportsman  shoots  from  the 
left  shoulder,  the  reverse  of  the  above  is,  of  course,  the 
correct  thing. 

A  canoe  is  so  light  and  the  centre  of  gravity  so  high 
that  the  recoil  of  a  gun  has  to  be  taken  into  consideration. 
The  stock  should  be  held  firmly  against  the  shoulder, 
and  the  latter  member  thrust  slightly  more  forward 
toward  the  game  than  when  shooting  on  terra-firma. 
In  high  shots  this  movement  should  be  accentuated. 
Practice  will  soon  regulate  the  amount  of  shoulder 
thrust  necessary  to  offset  the  recoil  of  any  particular 
gun.  If  the  guide  calls  attention  to  any  birds  that  are 
coming  up  astern,  do  not  attempt  to  shift  your  seat 
and  turn  around,  nor  place  one  hand  on  the  gunwale 
and  turn.  Pivot  only  as  far  as  you  can  with  head  and 
shoulders,  and  leave  it  to  the  guide  to  turn  the  canoe  to 
an  appropriate  angle. 

Thousands  of  words  might  be  written  listing  things 
not  to  do  when  using  a  gun  from  a  canoe.  But  the 
pivoting  over  the  centre  of  gravity  is  the  essential  thing 
to  remember,  combined  with  keeping  the  latter  as  low 
as  possible.  With  these  two  fundamental  principles 
always  in  mind,  practically  all  dangerous  mistakes  will 
be  automatically  avoided. 

The  pictures  accompanying  this  article  are  taken  to 
illustrate  a  few  of  the  more  common  mistakes.  An 
expert  wing-shot  when  in  my  canoe  has  been  known  to 
turn  suddenly  and  to  sit  upon  the  bow  deck  and  shoot 
at  birds  flying  behind  me,  at  imminent  risk  of  capsizing 
us  both  or  shooting  me.  Another  over-anxious  "  sport " 
suddenly  stood  up  and  emptied  his  repeater  at  flying 
ducks.  Uncountable  times  I  have  had  hunters  swing 
quickly  to  the  right  or  left,  throwing  their  weight  on 
the  gunwale,  or  shift  their  bodies  sharply  to  port  while 
shooting  to  starboard,  or  the  reverse.  In  all  these 

103 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

cases  I  was  too  busy  cutting  figure  eights  in  the  water 
with  my  paddle  while  frantically  attempting  to  keep  my 
boat  right  side  up,  to  have  time  to  persuade  the  joyous 
Nimrod  to  desist.  The  lad  that  sat  up  in  the  bow 
facing  me  certainly  made  some  wonderful  shots  at  the 
risk  of  my  life  and  his  own.  But  he  never  seemed  to 
appreciate  the  fact  that  if  I  had  not  been  fully  as  good  a 
canoeman  as  he  was  a  wing-shot  there  would  probably 
have  been  a  wet  blanket  thrown  over  the  gleeful  occasion. 
If  these  few  hints  and  pictures  have  the  effect  of 
saving  even  one  sportsman  from  a  wetting,  or  one  stanch 
little  kwedun  from  destruction,  the  space  given  will 
not  be  used  amiss. 


104 


The  Uninvited  Guest 

FOR  some  years  past — in  fact,  ever  since  I  built  my 
first  little  combination  boat-house  and  camp  on 
Lake  Rossignol — I  have  guided  and  "  hosted  "  a 
great  variety  of  human  beings  for  pleasure  and  profit. 
Incidentally  the  profit  was  mostly  in  the  pleasure.  Not 
being  nearly  so  close  a  student  of  human  nature  as  of 
Dame  Nature,  it  is  seldom  that  either  the  character 
or  appearance  of  a  transient  guest  is  lastingly  impressed 
upon  my  memory.  Occasionally  a  visitor  of  especially 
charming  personality  presents  himself  and  is  remembered. 
He  is  perhaps  unconsciously  blessed  for  his  easygoing 
and  good  disposition.  Occasionally,  also,  a  peculiarly 
disagreeable,  prying,  fussy  "  sport "  is  misdirected  into 
our  neck  of  the  woods.  If  he  is  trying  enough  he  is 
remembered  a  long,  long  time.  Such  a  man  was  Tug 
Williams. 

The  history  of  Tug's  moose-hunt  might  not  be  un- 
profitable as  a  horrible  example  to  the  young  and  aspiring 
hunter  of  what  not  to  do  or  say  in  the  woods. 

To  begin  at  the  beginning: 

I  was  sitting  in  my  office  in  Bridgewater,  Nova  Scotia, 
one  fall  morning  when  the  telephone  announced  that  a 
friend  from  Halifax  had  just  arrived  at  the  station  with 
his  gun,  woods  luggage,  and  the  intention  of  going 
moose-hunting  with  me.  Although  I  had  already  been 
hunting  once  that  season  and  it  was  late  in  October, 
I  welcomed  the  opportunity  of  making  a  good  excuse 
to  go  again,  so  told  him  to  come  right  up  to  the  office 

105 


With  Gun  &?  Rod  in  Canada 


and  we  would  talk  it  over.  In  a  few  minutes  he  arrived 
— gun,  sleeping-bag,  and  all.  During  the  next  half- 
hour  we  discussed  ways  and  means,  and  had  a  most 
interesting  time. 

We  decided  to  leave  Bridgewater  that  afternoon  by- 
train  for  Caledonia  and  stay  at  the  Alton  House,  driving 
out  to  camp  the  next  morning.  A  few  days  before  I  had 
sent  a  new  motor-boat  and  engine  up  to  the  lake  to  be 
stored  in  the  boat-house  ready  for  the  next  hunting 
or  fishing  trip.  We  anticipated  great  fun  cruising 
around  the  big  Rossignol  watershed  in  this  boat,  towing 
a  canoe  or  two  with  us  for  side  trips  up  the  rivers  and  into 
connecting  lakes.  The  boat  was  equipped  with  a 
3$  horse-power  Gray  engine,  and  I  had  not  yet  had  an 
opportunity  of  trying  it  out.  This  engine  had  been 
purchased  from  Mr.  Tug  Williams,  the  aforementioned 
gentleman,  an  erstwhile  inhabitant  of  Bridgewater. 
(His  real  name  is  withheld  for  obvious  reasons.)  The 
Caledonia  train  did  not  leave  until  4.40  in  the  afternoon. 
Sometime  between  lunch  and  train  time,  Tug  heard 
that  I  was  headed  for  camp  for  the  purpose  of  testing 
the  new  motor.  When  friend  Emery  and  I  arrived  at 
the  station,  Tug  was  waiting  on  the  platform  to  greet 
us,  valise  in  hand.  I  had  had  no  suspicion  of  his  evil 
intentions.  He  informed  us  that  he  was  glad  of  this 
opportunity  to  go  up  to  my  camp  and  "  demonstrate 
the  engine."  I  did  not  know  what  to  say  nor  which  way 
to  look.  In  order  to  give  myself  a  chance  to  gather  my 
wits,  I  hastily  introduced  Tug  to  Emery  and  slipped 
into  the  station  to  buy  the  tickets.  Still  lacking  moral 
courage  to  tell  Tug  he  could  not  go  with  us,  I  climbed 
aboard  the  train  closely  followed  by  the  welcome  and 
the  unwelcome  guests.  Tug  found  some  cronies  and 
hobnobbed  with  them  during  the  two-hour  run  to 
Caledonia. 

1 06 


The  Uninvited  Guest 

"  Who's  your  friend  ?"  Emery  asked,  with  one  eyebrow 
raised  a  little  higher  than  the  other. 

I  lamely  tried  to  explain  that  he  was  the  man  who 
had  sold  me  the  engine,  and  was  not  a  friend  of  mine 
exactly,  that  I  had  not  wanted  him,  and  perhaps  he  was 
not  going  any  farther  than  Caledonia,  and  ended  by 
admitting  that  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  about  it  under 
the  circumstances.  Emery  recognized  my  embarrassment 
and  magnanimously  agreed  to  let  matters  take  their 
course.  At  Caledonia  that  night  Tug  was  offensively 
one  of  the  party. 

Next  morning  during  the  drive  out  to  camp  he  told 
several  really  funny  stories.  The  road  was  long  and 
somewhat  muddy,  lying  largely  through  woodland. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  second  hour  he  seemed  to  get 
a  little  nervous,  and  asked  if  there  weren't  "  any  people 
living  'round  here."  This  was  my  first  inkling  that  Tug 
had  never  been  in  the  woods  before.  When  I  told  him 
no  one  lived  within  a  number  of  miles  of  camp,  where  we 
intended  spending  that  night,  he  "  allowed  "  that  it 
was  an  awful  lonesome  place  for  people  to  go  for  moose. 

Arriving  at  camp,  we  rolled  the  motor-boat  out  of  the 
boat-house  into  the  water,  and  then  had  lunch.  The 
new  engine  kept  Tug  so  busy  all  the  afternoon  that 
he  had  no  chance  to  worry  about  the  isolation.  During 
the  evening  in  the  camp  he  was  quite  the  life  of  the  party. 
He  sang  songs,  recited,  step-danced,  told  unrepeatable 
stories,  and  played  an  "  easy  "  game  of  poker — all  of 
which  softened  our  hearts  a  little  towards  him.  Just 
before  we  retired,  Old  Joe,  one  of  our  guides,  took  me 
aside  and  in  a  worried  voice  asked  if  I  intended  taking 
"  that  man  "  out  on  a  moose-hunt,  referring  to  Tug. 
Assuring  Joe  that  I  was  going  to  take  "  that  man  "  out 
where  the  moose  were,  I  inquired  why  he  asked.  It 
seems  Tug  had  told  Jim,  the  other  guide,  that  he  had 

107 


With  Gun       >  Rod  in  Canada 


never  fired  a  gun  nor  slept  in  a  tent,  nor  indeed  had  he 
ever  been  in  the  woods  before.  Old  Joe  earnestly  advised 
me  to  send  him  home.  This  was  impossible  to  do,  as 
we  had  only  a  few  days  to  spend  in  the  woods,  and  the 
team  that  had  brought  us  out  had  returned  to  town,  a 
distance  of  twelve  miles.  It  was  a  case  of  take  Tug 
or  give  up  the  moose-hunt. 

The  next  morning  we  started  off  with  the  new  boat, 
two  canoes  in  tow,  two  tents,  etc.;  Emery,  Tug,  Joe, 
and  I  in  the  motor-boat  and  Jim  sitting  in  the  stern  of 
the  second  canoe.  We  had  grub  for  a  week.  As  the 
moose-calling  season  was  about  over  and  the  wind  was 
favourable,  we  decided  to  "  drive  "  a  piece  of  country 
known  as  Yeaton  Lake  Bog.  Our  camp  site  was  to  be 
on  the  neck  of  land  between  Yeaton  Lake  and  Lake 
Rossignol,  a  distance  of  nine  miles  from  the  home  camp. 
We  made  directly  for  this  point,  and  ran  into  a  heavy 
easterly  wind  and  sea  in  the  lower  reaches  of  the  lake. 
The  engine  stalled,  and  we  shipped  a  little  water.  Tug, 
who  was  acting  as  engineer,  went  straight  "  up  in  the 
air."  After  considerable  difficulty,  Emery  and  I  got  the 
motor  working  again.  (The  trouble  had  been  a  short 
circuit  due  to  the  fact  that  Tug  had  left  the  wires  sagging 
in  the  bilge-water.)  With  the  exception  of  this  one 
interruption,  the  engine  pushed  us  along  satisfactorily 
to  our  destination.  While  we  were  unloading  and  pitch- 
ing the  tents,  Tug  asked  a  lot  of  questions.  The  newness 
of  the  situation,  however,  did  not  seem  to  hurt  his 
appetite,  either  for  the  solid  or  liquid  nourishment 
with  which  our  commissary  was  supplied.  After  lunch 
we  set  out  to  "  drive  "  Yeaton  Lake  Bog. 

The  modus  operandi  was  for  a  guide  to  go  to  windward 
along  the  shore  of  the  lake,  and  then  weave  back  and 
forth  through  the  thicket,  shouting,  and  occasionally 
discharging  his  six-shooter.  If  there  were  any  moose 

1  08 


The  Uninvited  Guest 

in  the  woods  at  the  head  of  the  bog,  this  would  start 
them  out.  There  were  three  paths  that  they  would 
follow:  one  trail  led  along  the  eastern  edge  of  the  bog; 
the  second,  the  western  edge;  the  third  crossed  the 
brook  at  the  outlet  of  Yeaton  Lake,  and  then  along  the 
narrow  neck  of  land  upon  which  we  had  pitched  our 
tents.  Jim  was  to  do  the  driving,  and  he  placed  Emery 
on  a  low  ridge  on  the  western  side,  and  me  on  the  eastern 
side  on  a  similar  ridge.  Joe  took  charge  of  Tug  and 
stationed  him,  armed  with  a  double-barrelled  shotgun 
loaded  with  ball,  on  the  trail  below  our  tents.  The 
bog  was  about  five  hundred  yards  wide.  From  where 
I  crouched  among  the  bushes  on  my  ridge,  I  could  see 
Emery  quite  plainly  upon  his. 

Jim.  had  been  gone  perhaps  an  hour  and  a  half,  when 
I  heard  his  first  shout,  "  Get  out  o'  there !"  This  was 
followed  by  a  couple  of  revolver  shots.  In  a  few  minutes 
a  two-year-old  bull  trotted  out  on  the  bog  and  stood 
within  twenty-five  yards  of  Emery.  As  this  moose  was 
little  more  than  a  spike-horn,  Emery  would  not  shoot 
at  him,  although  I  expected  to  hear  his  405  Winchester 
bark  at  any  second.  When  you  consider  that  Emery 
had  never  killed  a  moose  in  his  life,  he  showed  real  sport- 
ing blood  in  withholding  his  fire.  Even  a  two-year-old 
bull  moose,  broadside  on  at  twenty-five  yards,  is  a  very 
tempting  target,  and  few  hunters  would  have  passed 
it  up. 

After  studying  the  animal,  Emery  simply  waved  his 
hand  and  scared  it  across  to  my  side  of  the  bog.  I 
looked  it  over  carefully  and  also  waved  it  good-bye.  The 
next  instant  a  little  calf  ran  out  near  Emery;  this  was 
followed  by  a  fat,  lumbering  cow.  As  this  was  real 
beef,  Emery's  405  did  the  trick  nicely  in  two  shots. 
The  cow  went  down  for  the  final  count  within  one 
hundred  yards  of  the  edge  of  the  lake. 

109 


With  Gun  £?  Rod  in  Canada 


While  the  cow  was  making  its  last  kick,  an  enormous 
bull  showed  himself  for  an  instant,  coming  from  the 
same  direction.  It  was  in  sight  only  a  couple  of  seconds, 
and  neither  Emery  nor  I  had  time  to  take  the  long  shot. 
As  the  big  bull  had  taken  the  trail  down  towards  Tug 
and  Joe,  we  expected  to  hear  the  old  smooth-bore  bellow 
at  any  moment.  After  listening  for  twenty  minutes, 
Jim,  who  had  now  joined  us,  concluded  that  the  big  bull 
must  have  taken  to  the  water. 

We  dressed  the  cow  and  carried  it  down  to  the  two 
canoes  which  we  had  used  to  cross  Yeaton  Lake  from  the 
camp.  It  was  a  big  load,  and  by  the  time  I  had  Emery 
in  the  bow  of  mine,  and  half  a  moose,  there  was  barely 
three  inches  of  rail  showing  above  water.  Jim  took 
the  other  half  of  the  big  carcass  in  his  canoe,  and  we 
paddled  back  to  the  neck  of  land  upon  which  our  tents 
were  situated.  Leaving  the  meat  in  the  boats,  we  hurried 
across  the  peninsula,  expecting  to  find  Joe  and  Tug 
watching  the  trail.  They  were  not  in  sight,  but  the 
tracks  of  a  regular  old-timer  of  a  bull  passed  right  under 
the  big  tree  where  Joe  had  placed  Tug  to  watch.  They 
were  just  about  the  biggest  moose  tracks  I  had  ever  seen, 
and  the  way  the  moss  and  mud  were  thrown  out  of 
them  and  scattered  among  the  bushes  indicated  that 
that  moose  was  in  a  considerable  hurry  to  get  out  of  the 
country.  Hoping  to  solve  the  mystery  of  Tug's  dis- 
appearance, we  hastened  over  to  the  tents,  where  we 
found  Joe  chopping  wood  and  Tug  on  a  stump  still 
asking  questions.  Joe  hardly  looked  up  at  our  approach, 
but  by  the  way  he  was  making  the  chips  fly  I  concluded 
he  was  irritated  about  something.  Tug  greeted  us  as 
follows : 

"Say,  what  are  youse  guys  trying  to  put  over  ?  Youse 
must  think  I'm  a  chicken.  You  can't  kid  me,  takin' 
me  way  off  in  the  bushes  like  this,  and  leavin'  me  up 

no 


The  Uninvited  Guest 

against  a  tree,  then  goin'  away  and  shootin'.  It  didn't 
scare  me  none,  and  youse  is  just  wastin'  your  time. 
Where's  your  old  moose,  anyway  ?  There  ain't  none 
nearer  than  Central  Park  Zoo,  I  bet.  Where  is  he  ? 
Tell  me  !  Where  is  he  ?" 

This  was  all  delivered  in  a  tone  of  opprobrium  that 
was  positively  scathing.  While  I  took  Joe  aside  for  a 
quiet  talk,  neither  Jim  nor  Emery  enlightened  Tug  as  to 
the  day's  happenings.  It  was  unnecessary  to  tell  Joe 
we  had  succeeded  in  killing  a  moose,  as  the  two  quick 
shots  of  Emery's  rifle  gave  him  an  adequate  account  of 
our  hunt.  If  he  had  heard  eight  or  ten  shots,  he  might 
have  asked  whether  or  notwe  had  succeeded  in  getting  our 
game.  When  I  told  Joe  about  the  big  tracks  and  asked 
him  why  he  and  Tug  hadn't  seen  the  bull,  he  elucidated : 

"  It  was  this  way.  I  took  Mr.  Williams  over  to  that 
big  pine  right  on  the  trail  and  got  him  all  fixed  behind 
some  bushes.  Then  I  handed  him  the  smooth-bore 
and  explained  to  him  that  he  must  shoot  low,  and,  as 
the  bull  would  probably  be  trottin'  straight  toward  him, 
he  mustn't  shoot  until  he  was  close.  He  fidgeted  around 
quite  awhile  and  cocked  both  barrels  of  the  gun.  I  told 
him  not  to  do  that  till  the  moose  showed  up.  Being 
scared  he  would  fire  the  gun  if  he  tried  to  let  the  hammers 
down,  I  took  the  gun  away  from  him  and  put  the  hammers 
at  half-cock,  explainin'  how  it  should  be  done.  He 
grabbed  the  gun  out  of  my  hands  and  told  me  it  didn't 
take  him  all  day  to  learn  how  to  shoot.  So  I  just 
naturally  took  the  gun  away  from  him  again  and  took 
the  cartridges  out  of  it,  and  explained  some  more  how 
to  cock  it.  I  let  the  hammers  down  to  half-cock  and 
showed  him  how  to  load  it.  He  called  me  an  old  farmer 
and  a  hick.  Knowing  he  was  a  friend  o'  yourn,  I  didn't 
smash  him  across  the  mouth,  but  kept  cool  and  handed 
him  back  the  gun.  He  tried  snapping  the  hammers  a 

in 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

few  times,  and  then  loaded  her  up.  Then  he  squirmed 
around  and  pointed  that  gun  at  everything  in  the  woods, 
while  I  was  manoovrin'  to  keep  behind  him.  Figurin' 
this  kind  of  huntin'  was  too  dangerous  for  me,  I  cautioned 
him  not  to  shoot  at  anything  he  might  hear  walkin'  in 
the  woods  unless  he  saw  it  had  four  legs  and  long  ears. 
Then  I  left  him  and  come  back  here  to  chop  wood. 
Just  as  I  was  leavin'  he  asked  what  he'd  do  if  a  moose 
cum.  I  told  him  to  just  pull  both  barrels  and  then  climb 
a  tree.  I  hadn't  been  here  five  minutes  before  he 
followed  and  said  he  was  lonesome." 

This  story  was  too  good  to  keep.  I  told  Emery  about 
it,  knowing  Joe  would  tell  Jim. 

As  Tug  was  still  scoffing  at  us,  we  decided  to  take  him 
over  and  show  him  the  moose  tracks.  They  didn't 
seem  to  make  much  impression  on  him. 

"  For  all  I  know,  them  may  be  the  feetsteps  of  some 
kind  of  a  big  bird,"  was  his  slurring  comment.  He 
certainly  contributed  to  the  day's  sport. 

For  the  time  we  refrained  from  showing  him  the 
moose  meat.  Jim  supposed  he'd  call  that  "  some  kind 
of  a  fish."  Emery  took  Tug  back  to  camp,  while  Jim 
and  I  walked  over  to  the  canoes  to  paddle  our  cargo  of 
meat  out  around  the  point  to  the  landing  in  front  of  our 
tents.  Tug,  hearing  us  talking,  was  at  the  landing  when 
we  arrived.  He  took  one  look  at  the  meat  and  hide, 
and  entertained  us  as  follows: 

"  Where's  his  horns  ?  Youse  guys  has  been  robbin' 
a  bone-yard  or  killin'  someone's  horse." 

That  night  when  he  saw  us  eating  the  "  horse  "  meat, 
he  joined  in  most  heartily. 

About  nine  o'clock  as  we  lay  stretched  on  our  blankets 
in  the  tent  with  the  fly  thrown  back  to  admit  the  warmth 
of  the  camp-fire,  a  big  owl  hooted  from  a  tree  just  behind 
the  tent. 

112 


The  Uninvited  Guest 

"  Whoo,  whoo  !  .  .  .     Whoo  !  .  .  .    Whoo,  whoo  .  .  . 

0000  !" 

Williams  jumped.     "  My  Gawd  !  what's  that  ?" 

"  Them's  wild-cats  " — from  Old  Joe. 

"  Wild-cats !"  repeated  Tug.  "  Do  you  have  wild- 
cats 'round  here  ?" 

"  Sure,"  said  Joe.     "  The  woods  is  full  of  'em." 

"  How  big  are  they  ?" — from  Tug,  apprehensively. 

"  Oh,  not  very  big,"  drawled  Joe.  "  About  the  size 
of  a  two-year-old  steer." 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  during  which  Emery  and 

1  were  stuffing  our  mittens  in  our  mouths  to  keep  from 
laughing. 

"  This  is  sure  a  h — 11  of  a  place  to  invite  a  man,"  rasped 
Tug — "  way  out  in  these  woods,  and  no  place  to  sleep 
but  under  an  old  sheet,  strung  up  on  a  pole,  and  no 
windows  nor  doors  to  shut !"  This  plaint  seemed  to 
delight  Jim  and  Joe,  and  stirred  the  latter  to  further 
devilry. 

I  was  wearing  an  old  leather  coat  with  the  sleeve 
badly  torn  and  worn. 

"  It's  a  good  thing  that  bear  got  hold  of  your  coat- 
sleeve  instead  of  tearin'  the  arm  off  yer  that  night  he 
reached  under  the  tent,"  said  Joe,  in  a  sepulchral  tone, 
barely  loud  enough  for  Tug  to  overhear. 

"  What's  that  ?  what's  that  ?"  snapped  Tug,  taking 
the  bait  and  sitting  bolt  upright  on  his  blankets. 

Joe  explained  at  length  how  a  bear  had  reached  in 
under  the  tent  one  night  during  our  last  camping  trip, 
and  had  made  a  grab  at  me  with  his  paw,  but  had  only 
succeeded  in  tearing  my  coat-sleeve,  as  I  had  awakened 
just  in  the  nick  of  time.  Whether  this  was  pragmatism 
or  a  rank  lie,  depends  entirely  upon  your  point  of  view. 

Tug  kept  rumbling  and  grumbling  and  complaining 
about  the  hard  ground,  and  about  our  lack  of  considera- 

113  H 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 

tion  in  taking  him  out  into  such  an  environment.  Just 
as  we  were  getting  settled  down  again,  Joe  asked  if  he 
could  borrow  my  six-shooter.  Prepared  for  some  more 
of  his  amusing  pranks,  I  handed  it  over  without  asking 
for  an  explanation.  He  disappeared  from  the  fire-light, 
taking  the  trail  down  to  the  canoe  landing. 

"  Where's  he  goin'  ?  What  'd  he  want  that  gun  for  ?" 
asked  Tug,  anxiously. 

As  Jim  had  gone  to  bed  in  the  tent  on  the  other  side 
of  the  fire,  it  fell  to  me  to  back  Joe's  game,  so  I 
hazarded : 

"  Oh,  he's  just  gone  down  to  see  if  the  meat's  all 
right.  Sometimes  bears  carry  off  moose  meat,  if  you 
don't  watch  it." 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  my  mouth  when  there 
was  a  crash  in  the  bushes,  followed  by  several  shots 
from  the  six-shooter.  In  apparent  alarm,  I  grabbed  my 
rifle,  and  with  a  yell,  "  I'm  coming,  Joe,"  darted  out  of 
the  tent,  heading  for  the  scene  of  action.  My  hasty 
arrival  in  Joe's  proximity  found  him  sitting  on  a  rock 
laughing. 

"  Fire  a  couple  o'  shots  out  of  your  rifle,  boss,"  he 
suggested. 

"  Crack,  crack  !"  went  the  old  30-40  into  the  innocent 
blackness  of  the  night.  The  wood  resounded  with  the 
turmoil.  Considerately  pausing  for  the  full  effect  of  this 
sham  battle,  Joe  and  I  went  up  the  trail  to  the  tents. 
Emery  was  having  hysterics.  There  were  scufflings  and 
grunting  sounds  coming  from  Jim's  tent. 

"  Where's  Tug  ?"  I  asked. 

"  When  you  fired  that  rifle  he  took  a  high  dive  across 
the  fire,  and  tried  to  get  in  bed  with  old  Jim,"  laughed 
Emery. 

Just  then  Tug's  big,  rough,  red  face  obtruded  from 
under  the  fly  of  Jim's  tent. 

114 


The  Uninvited  Guest 

"  Did  you  get  him,  boys  ? "  he  questioned,  his  eyes 
as  big  as  saucers. 

"  Naw,  he  got  away,"  said  Joe,  laconically. 

Whether  or  not  Tug  was  making  up  his  mind  to  come 
back  and  sleep  in  our  tent,  I  do  not  know;  but  suddenly 
he  was  catapulted  out  of  Jim's  wickiup,  with  suspicious 
alacrity.  Picking  himself  quickly  up  from  the  ashes 
of  the  camp-fire,  where  he  had  rolled,  and  with  his  mind 
still  set  on  the  action  of  the  past  few  moments,  he 
demanded  to  know  all  about  it. 

Old  Joe  was  absolutely  shameless  in  giving  the  exciting 
details  of  our  encounter  with  an  imaginary  bear. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  hearty  evening  meal  of  moose  meat 
and  other  rich  food,  of  which  Tug  had  eaten  large 
quantities,  or  perhaps  it  was  the  exciting  events  he  had 
lately  passed  through,  that  were  responsible  for  his 
restless  night.  It  may  have  been  a  combination  of  both. 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  were  all  dis- 
turbed by  a  blood-curding  yell.  Tug  was  sitting  up  in  his 
blankets  wild- eyed,  and  evidently  having  a  nightmare. 
"  Look  out !"  he  yelled.  "  He's  got  yer  by  the  foot. 
See  him  ?  See  him  ?" 

After  we  had  mauled  him  a  bit,  he  came  to  his  senses, 
and  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief  explained  how  he  had 
dreamed  that  he  had  seen  a  bear  gnawing  at  one  of  my 
feet,  and  as  he  had  succeeded  in  chewing  it  off  clear  up 
to  the  ankle,  he  (Tug)  was  trying  to  wake  me  to  tell 
me  about  it. 

The  next  two  or  three  days  it  snowed  and  "  blowed  " 
and  rained.  The  tents  were  wet  and  leaked  more  or 
less ;  the  blankets  were  soggy  from  continual  contact  with 
our  wet  clothing.  The  meals  were  served  half  cold  and 
half  cooked.  Under  these  difficult  conditions,  it  would 
have  tried  the  nerves  of  old,  experienced  campers  to 
keep  the  peace. 

"5 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

As  for  Tug,  he  was  miserable  and  incorrigible.  He 
found  fault  with  his  fellow-sportsmen,  hackled  the 
guides,  hogged  the  bedding,  and  generally  made  himself 
an  everlasting  nuisance. 

At  my  suggestion  he  tried  to  get  the  engine  started 
in  the  motor-boat;  but  wet  batteries,  wet  wires,  and 
wet  gasolene  baffled  his  best  efforts  and  mine  also. 
Finally,  in  desperation,  I  took  the  spark  coil,  batteries, 
and  wire  all  out  of  the  boat,  and  baked  them  before  a 
roaring  fire  in  our  tin  baker.  Getting  one  of  the  guides 
to  hold  an  oil-coat  to  windward  of  the  engine,  I  re- 
attached  the  various  appurtenances  and  got  the  engine 
running. 

This  was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  of  our  fourth 
stormy  day.  The  wind  was  still  blowing  a  gale,  but 
during  a  temporary  lull  we  tore  down  our  tents,  packed 
our  dunnage  as  best  we  could  in  the  boats,  and  started 
for  Lowe's  Landing.  As  we  ran  into  the  open  lake 
we  encountered  a  heavy  wind  and  sea,  and  it  began  to 
snow.  We  just  made  the  lee  of  a  low,  swampy  island 
covered  with  firs,  when  the  engine  stalled.  By  strenuous 
rowing  and  paddling  we  made  a  landing.  The  engine 
refused  to  work,  so  in  spite  of  Tug's  vituperations  we 
decided  to  spend  the  night  right  there.  We  had  to 
pitch  a  tent  in  a  rocky,  wet  spot  under  the  trees,  but  a 
roaring  fire  soon  relieved  the  acute  sense  of  discomfort. 
Tug's  sputterings  had  reached  a  squeaky,  querulous 
stage.  Joe  threatened  to  tie  a  rock  to  his  foot  and  throw 
him  in  the  lake,  and  I  didn't  blame  him.  It  was  "  some  " 
night !  To  cap  the  climax,  Tug  accused  Jim  of  picking 
out  the  only  soft,  level  spot  under  the  tent  for  himself. 
Jim  said  nothing,  but  picked  up  his  sheep-skin  and 
blankets,  and  went  outside  in  the  snowstorm  to  lie  in 
the  lee  of  the  fire.  As  the  sparks  flew  on  his  wet  blanket, 
we  occasionally  caught  the  odour  of  scorched  wool. 

116 


The  Uninvited  Guest 

Tug  found  the  aroma  very  disagreeable  to  his  sensitive 
nostrils,  and  told  Jim  if  he  washed  a  little  oftener  his 
hide  wouldn't  smell  so  bad  when  it  burned.  Jim  then 
relieved  himself  as  follows: 

"  Mr.  Williams,  my  hide  may  be  dirty,  but  it  tain't 
half  as  foul  as  your  big  mouth.  In  all  my  busy  life  of 
guidin'  I  never  'lowed  to  take  money  from  such  a  low- 
down,  beer-guzzlin',  greasy,  slum  sport  as  you  be.  You 
stay  in  that  there  tent.  The  outdoors  belongs  to  me. 
If  I  didn't  have  more  respect  for  my  guide's  licence  than 
I  have  for  your  dirty  carcass,  I'd  roll  you  in  the  fire 
and  fry  out  enough  fat  to  grease  all  the  machinery  in  the 
brewery  where  you  last  worked." 

This  tirade  was  too  much  for  even  Tug's  thick-skinned 
sensibilities,  so  he  discharged  Jim  on  the  spot,  much  to 
our  amusement  and  Jim's  indifference. 

It  cleared  off  the  next  day  bright  and  warm.  After 
re-baking  the  ignition  apparatus,  we  started  gaily  off  and 
made  camp  at  Lowe's  Landing  in  good  time. 

Tug  breathed  a  long  sigh  of  relief  as  he  stretched  himself 
out  on  one  of  the  good  spring  cots.  He  was  right  merry 
and  talked  incessantly  of  the  wonderfully  fine  time  he 
had  had. 

The  next  morning  Kempton's  team  arrived  to  take 
us  out.  The  moose  was  to  follow  in  a  truck-wagon. 

After  we  were  comfortably  jogging  along,  Tug  heaved 
a  sigh  of  relief.  He  shivered  and  settled  himself  con- 
tentedly down  into  the  collar  of  his  overcoat. 

"  Gosh !"  he  murmured;  "  them  wildcats  make  a 
doleful  sound." 


117 


Outguessing  a  Bull 

A  THOUGH  my  camp  is  in  the  heart  of  a  very 
fine  moose  country,  working  unconsciously  on 
the  theory  that  "  the  fishing  is  always  better  on 
the  other  side  of  the  brook,"  I  have  invariably  gone 
several  miles  from  camp  to  do  my  moose-hunting, 
usually  by  canoe  or  motor-boat,  to  some  point  near  the 
shore  of  Lake  Rossignol  or  its  tributaries. 

I  do  not  suppose  there  is  another  place  in  North 
America  where  one  can  see  so  many  fine  moose  and  heads 
assembled  as  at  Lowe's  Landing,  where  the  wagon  road 
from  Caledonia  terminates. 

On  several  occasions  moose  have  been  shot  near  the 
camp,  but  I  was  always  under  the  impression  that  the 
continued  hilarity  and  practice-shooting  of  hunting- 
parties,  either  before  going  out  or  coming  in,  would  be 
detrimental  to  attempts  to  call  moose  or  to  seriously 
hunt  them  anywhere  near  the  buildings. 

On  October  19,  1918,  with  one  companion,  I  rolled 
into  camp  with  the  car  about  5  p.m.  Just  as  we  arrived 
a  single  horse  and  truck-wagon  were  leaving  the  landing 
for  Caledonia  with  a  fine  moose.  After  opening  up  the 
cabin  I  picked  up  a  moose  call  from  the  mantel  over  the 
fireplace  and  stepped  out  on  the  front  porch.  The 
evening  was  beautiful;  the  sun,  a  ball  of  fire  in  the  west. 
It  was  dead  calm  and  going  to  be  frosty.  I  put  the 
birch-bark  megaphone  to  my  lips  and  called  once.  The 
imitation  notes  of  a  cow  moose  rang  out  over  the  woods 
and  lake,  echoing  and  re-echoing  for  miles.  The  echo 
had  hardly  died  down,  when  I  heard  a  bull  speak  from 

118 


Outguessing  a  Bull 

the  knoll  on  the  edge  of  the  lake  less  than  half  a  mile 
from  camp.  A  second  or  two  afterwards  a  second  bull 
spoke  from  the  same  direction,  but  with  a  coarser  grunt. 
This  was  followed  by  a  crash  in  the  trees,  a  clashing  of 
horns,  and  then  it  sounded  as  though  Bedlam  were  let 
loose  in  the  wilderness. 

Charlie,  my  companion,  was  lying  down  on  the  couch 
in  the  living-room  with  a  headache,  as  I  stepped  in  to 
get  my  rifle.  He  was  too  sleepy  to  come  out  and  hear 
the  bulls  fight.  With  my  rifle  in  one  hand  and  call  in 
the  other,  I  walked  down  the  trail  from  the  cabin  to 
a  little  clearing  just  west  of  my  barn  and  called  again. 
Both  bulls  answered  and  immediately  began  to  fight. 
It  was  quite  evident  that  they  both  started  for  the  call, 
but  each  time  decided  to  settle  which  was  entitled  to  go 
to  it.  I  repeated  the  performance  several  times  at 
intervals  of  perhaps  five  minutes,  while  the  bulls  were 
making  a  continual  uproar.  I  could  not  succeed  in 
separating  them. 

Believing  that  a  little  strategy  might  accomplish  the 
trick,  I  went  down  to  the  boat-house,  took  out  a  canoe, 
and  paddled  along  the  edge  of  the  lake.  Guided  by  the 
uproar  the  bulls  were  making,  I  tried  to  paddle  up  close 
enough  to  them  to  get  a  shot.  The  sunset  was  directly 
in  my  eyes.  The  water  in  the  lake  was  very  high,  owing 
to  a  dam  at  Indian  Gardens,  and  I  could  not  force  my 
canoe  through  the  trees  in  order  to  get  close  enough  to 
the  bulls  to  see  them  nor  to  make  dry  land,  so,  backing 
the  canoe  out  of  the  bushes,  I  paddled  along  the  edge 
of  the  lake  a  few  rods  farther  and  called  again.  The 
bulls  immediately  stopped  fighting.  I  had  them  guess- 
ing. I  could  hear  them  walking  through  the  woods, 
one  circling  around  to  find  the  new  supposed  cow,  and 
the  other  started  for  the  first  call.  I  paddled  back  as 
quickly  as  possible  to  the  landing  and  slipped  into  the 

119 


With  Gun  &?  Rod  in  Canada 


shadow  of  the  barn  in  the  clearing  where  I  had  called 
the  first  few  times.     I  listened  and  could  hear  the  bull 
walking  towards  me  through  the  woods.     He  came  as 
straight  for  the  corner  of  that  barn  as  if  he  had  been  led 
by  the  halter,  and  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  clearing 
hardly  fifty  feet  away.     As  it  was  getting  dark,  I  tied 
a  handkerchief  around  the  barrel  of  my  gun  to  give  me 
an  idea  where  I  was  aiming,  and  when  the  moose  stopped, 
I   fired.     He  staggered  and  turned  sideways.     I  fired 
again,  and  as  he  moved  off  in  the  dark  edge  of  the  trees, 
I  fired  three  more  shots.     The  moose  disappeared  in  the 
black  woods.     I  did  not  feel  like  following  him  through 
the  thicket  alone  at  that  time  of  night,  so  I  loaded  up 
my  magazine  and  went  to  the  cabin.     My  shooting  had 
awakened  Charlie,  and  he  was  just  putting  on  his  mocca- 
sins to  see  what  it  was  all  about.     Together  we  went 
back  to  look  for  the  moose.     There  had  been  a  slight 
fall  of  snow  the  night  before,  and  we  found  his  tracks 
and  blood.     We  had  not  tracked  him  over  twenty-five 
yards,  when  the  moose  jumped  up  out  of  the  thicket 
and  made  for  the  lake.     As  soon  as  I  heard  him  in  the 
water  I  ran  back  to  the  landing  and  jumped  into  a  canoe, 
and  caught  sight  of  the  moose,  now  swimming,  now  run- 
ning, just  outside  of  the  trees  on  the  edge  of  the  flowage. 
The  sun  had  set  and  there  was  a  full  moon  in  the  east. 
The  moose  swam  across  a  little  cove  and  came  out  of 
water  on  a  submerged  point,  and  stood  for  an  instant 
looking  back.  I  dropped  the  paddle,  picked  up  my  rifle 
and  fired.     The  moose  plunged  again  into  deep  water. 
A  little  point  of  flowed  timber  reached  out  into  the  lake, 
and  the  moose  ran  right  through  it. 

I  followed  now,  only  about  twenty-five  or  thirty  feet 
behind.  As  he  made  clear  water  on  the  other  edge  of 
the  point  he  put  for  the  shore,  and  I  paddled  frantically 
to  get  between  him  and  his  objective,  and  succeeded  in 


Outguessing  a  Bull 

turning  him  out  into  the  deep  water  of  the  lake.     I 
found  that  I  could  paddle  a  little  faster  than  he  could 
swim,  as  he  was  undoubtedly  badly  wounded,  so  I  stopped 
long  enough  to  take  off  my  mackinaw,  which  had  materi- 
ally impeded  my  efforts  up  to  this  moment.     With  my 
mackinaw  under  my  knees  and  my  rifle  handy,  I  settled 
down  to  a  comfortable  race  with  the  moose,  my  object 
now  being  to  head  him  off  from  landing  across  the  lake 
from  the  camp.     I  caught  up  to  him  just  as  he  struck 
dry  land,  and  succeeded  in  turning  him  again  towards 
deep  water  and  camp.     He  swam  a  few  rods,  and  then 
evidently  suddenly  resented  the  fact  that  he  was  being 
driven  at  will  around  the  lake,  for  he  turned  as  quick 
as  lightning,  and  with  his  front  feet  thrashing  the  water 
tried  to  climb  in  the  front  seat  of  the  canoe.     He  prob- 
ably fancied  a  ride  rather  than  a  swim.     I  shouted  at 
him  and  turned  that  canoe  quicker  than  I  had  ever 
turned  a  buoy  in  a  canoe  race.     The  moose  headed  again 
for  deep  water  and  the  other  side  of  the  lake.     By 
paddling  first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other,  I  succeeded 
in  keeping  him  straight  until  we  reached  nearly  the 
middle   of   the  lake,   when   he   again  viciously  swung 
around    and    struck    at    the   canoe.     Having    had    the 
previous  experience,   I  was  ready  for  this  move,   and 
succeeded  in  getting  out  of  his  way  and  turned  him  back 
on  his  course.    As  we  approached  the  landing  in  front 
of  the  boat-house,  Charlie  was  standing  on  the  shore 
and  undertook  to  shout  directions.     The  moose  heard 
him,  turned  sharply  to  the  left,  and  made  a  bee-line 
for  the  western  shore.    At  this  point  he  swam  so  fast 
that  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  up  to  him.     I  was 
afraid  if  he  got  in  among  the  trees  I  would  lose  him,  so  I 
again  dropped  the  paddle,  picked  up  the  rifle  and  fired 
two  shots  at  him. 

One  shot  went  through  his  ear,  as  I  afterwards  dis- 

121 


With  Gun     ?  Rod  in  Canada 


covered,  and  the  other  struck  the  water  just  behind  his 
head.  That  shot  slowed  him  down,  and  I  succeeded 
in  paddling  by  him  and  heading  him  again  towards  the 
landing.  Not  knowing  just  where  Charlie  was  on  the 
shore,  I  was  conjecturing  as  to  how  to  manoeuvre  so  as 
to  shoot  the  moose  when  he  did  strike  solid  bottom  and 
come  out  of  water,  without  hitting  Charlie. 

As  the  moose's  feet  struck  bottom  he  turned  sharply 
to  the  left,  and  the  canoe  almost  ran  into  him.  Another 
jump  and  his  front  feet  would  have  gone  through  the 
bottom  of  the  canoe,  or  worse.  I  had  just  time  to  pick 
up  the  rifle  and  fire  a  shot  into  his  shoulder.  This  shot 
stopped  him  and  a  second  shot  killed  him.  He  was  in 
about  three  feet  of  water. 

Charlie  came  out  with  a  piece  of  rope,  which  we 
fastened  to  his  horns,  and  towed  him  to  the  wharf  in 
front  of  the  boat-house.  The  water  in  the  lake  was  so 
high  that  it  just  reached  the  top  edge  of  the  wharf.  It 
took  two  of  us  nearly  an  hour  with  ropes  and  prys  to  get 
the  animal  up  on  the  dock.  We  dressed  him,  went  up 
to  the  cabin,  and  turned  in  until  morning. 

Altogether  it  was  a  most  exciting  and  satisfactory 
moose-hunt.  The  next  morning  we  skinned  and 
quartered  him,  backed  the  car  to  the  dock,  and  loaded 
the  whole  business  into  the  tonneau. 

Charlie  is  a  licensed  guide  and  an  old  moose-hunter. 
He  said  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  seen  a  moose 
"  teamed  "  around  a  lake  and  driven  ashore  right  where 
you  wanted  it.  As  he  stood  on  the  bank  and  shouted 
directions  as  to  where  to  drive  the  moose,  it  crossed  my 
mind  (even  in  the  excitement  of  the  chase)  that  under 
the  circumstances  he  was  too  darn  particular  as  to  just 
where  I  should  land  that  moose  ! 

Speaking  of  carrying  away  lead,  that  hide  shows  three 
shoulder  shots,  one  paunch  shot,  one  neck  shot  just  back 

122 


Outguessing  a  Bull 

of  the  ears,  one  shot  in  the  back  beside  the  tail,  and  a  hole 
through  the  ear.     One  bullet  broke  the  lower  jaw. 

I  was  using  a  30  U.S.A.  Winchester  carbine  1895. 
None  of  the  shoulder  shots  touched  the  heart.  I  have 
killed  five  moose  with  this  same  gun,  and  never  before 
fired  over  two  shots  to  put  my  quarry  down  for  keeps. 


123 


The  Grizzly  Agrees 

1AM  a  Rocky  Mountain  Silver-tip  Grizzly.  When 
berries  are  ripe  I  weigh  nearly  half  a  ton.  I  can 
stand  up  with  my  back  to  a  tree,  and  biting  up  over 
my  shoulder,  make  my  mark  fully  nine  feet  above  ground. 
I  am  not  afraid  of  anything  that  hunts  in  the  neck  of  the 
woods  I  call  home,  barring  human  beings  with  guns. 
I  would  soon  make  my  mountains  untenable  for  man 
if  it  were  not  for  their  pesky  rifles.  They  do  take  unfair 
advantage  of  us  poor  bears.  Being  afraid  to  come  to 
close  quarters,  they  stand  off  a  long  way  and  shoot  at 
us.  Sometimes  they  leave  food  around  with  poison  in 
it  that  makes  us  sick,  but  as  we  can  usually  detect  the 
poison  we  do  not  often  eat  it.  They  have  traps  also 
that  trouble  us  a  little,  but  we  can  generally  see  or  smell 
them.  Occasionally  we  turn  them  over  and  cause  them 
to  bite  the  ground  instead  of  our  feet.  We  could  live 
in  spite  of  the  poison  and  the  traps,  but  we  cannot  cope 
with  guns. 

While  hibernating  in  my  snug  cave  tucked  away  on  a 
nice  sunny  slope  of  the  Rockies  this  winter,  I  projected 
my  astral  body  to  New  York  City.  Having  been  the 
editor  of  a  magazine  in  a  previous  incarnation,  I  am 
naturally  attracted  to  news-stands  while  on  my  spirit 
peregrinations.  Although  now  existing  on  a  much 
higher  plane  than  in  my  previous  state,  I  am  still  intensely 
interested  in  what  my  late  pedantic  colleagues  are 
publishing.  In  pursuance  of  my  hobby  of  spiritual 
editing,  I  happened  to  glance  over  a  copy  of  Outlook  (N.Y.) 
for  January,  and  noted  an  article  entitled,  "  The  Hunter 

124 


The  Grizzly  Agrees 

Pleads  for  the  Grizzly.*'  I  was  gratified  to  learn  that 
human  beings  knew  so  much  about  me  and  my  habits. 
I  will  admit  that  I  was  shocked  when  I  found  that 
Mr.  George  Ord  had  the  nerve  to  call  our  family  by  such 
an  unpleasant  name  (Ursus  borribilis).  I  trust  that 
some  of  his  descendants  will  camp  in  my  vicinity  next 
summer,  and  having  inherited  naturalistic  tendencies, 
will  bring  plenty  of  supplies  and  no  guns. 

As  the  author  of  this  article  intimates,  I  am  keenly 
curious.  There  is  nothing  I  enjoy  more  than  slipping 
into  a  tent  full  of  good  bacon,  sugar,  molasses,  canned 
goods,  and  other  supplies  while  the  owners  are  away, 
and  learning  all  I  can  about  things.  What  I  cannot  eat 
I  investigate,  anyway.  It  is  my  nature.  I  just  love  to 
merrily  mix  everything  all  up  and  sort  of  play  around. 
If  I  were  sure  that  in  future  men  would  come  into  my 
country  without  guns,  I  would  do  more  of  this  sort  of 
thing,  and  we  could  get  real  well  acquainted.  I  have 
always  been  curious  to  get  close  to  a  man  and  see  what 
he's  made  of.  Several  times  I  have  walked  right  up  to  a 
camp,  partly  with  the  intention  of  turning  some  of  them 
over  with  my  paw,  and  rolling  them  about  and  toying 
with  them.  They  give  me  the  impression  of  being 
mushy  and  weak,  and  I  think  I  could  play  with  a  large 
number  and  even  take  them  apart  without  being  injured 
myself,  were  it  not  for  their  guns.  Someone  always 
wakes  up  and  shoots  at  me. 

As  stated  in  the  article  in  question,  I  get  excitedly 
curious  and  eager  for  a  close  look  at  new  things.  I  well 
remember  up  in  north-eastern  Utah,  in  the  summer  of 
1900,  seeing  a  band  of  sheep  in  a  big  mountain  park. 
Two  of  my  friends  were  with  me.  We  just  naturally 
had  to  walk  down  and  investigate  those  sheep.  We 
frolicked  among  them  awhile  and  killed  sixty.  It  was 
remarkable  how  weak  and  helpless  they  were.  We  did 

125 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 

not  mean  any  harm,  but  it  was  fascinating  to  pat  them 
and  see  them  fall.  Our  early  training  teaching  us  never 
to  waste  food,  we  had  to  stuff  ourselves  on  mutton 
for  several  weeks  after  this  day's  sport.  Mutton 
becomes  quite  tender  if  exposed  to  the  sun  a  few 
days.  It  was  a  good  thing  for  us  that  the  sheep-herder 
had  no  gun. 

Although  it  is  delightful  to  have  oneself  well  thought 
of,  and  to  be  given  a  good  character,  there  are  times 
when  we  grizzlies  just  have  to  chase  annoying  human 
beings  out  of  our  way,  the  magazine  article  to  the 
contrary  notwithstanding.  I  recall  one  incident  back 
in  1901;  and  although  I  do  not  often  lose  my  temper, 
I  think  you  will  agree  with  me  that  this  particular  mis- 
adventure justified  my  actions.  I  was  having  a  pleasant 
evening  drink  out  of  a  mountain  brook,  and  a  man  had 
the  audacity  to  dip  water  in  a  coffee-pot  out  of  the  same 
brook,  not  fifteen  feet  away.  It  was  lucky  for  him  that 
he  was  a  good  tree-climber.  He  was  too  quick  for  me, 
consequently  I  succeeded  merely  in  getting  hold  of  a 
piece  of  his  shirt.  Another  man  came  running  with  one 
of  those  guns,  and  hurt  me  so  badly  that  I  had  to  climb 
up  the  mountain  and  lie  in  the  snow  until  my  wounds 
healed.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  this  second  man  I  could 
have  just  waited  around  under  the  tree. 

The  author  of  the  magazine  story  tells  about  me  playing 
with  a  floating  log  and  coasting  down  the  mountain. 
He  should  have  seen  me  a  few  years  ago  romping  with 
a  bunch  of  saddle-horses  in  a  small  corral.  Those  ponies 
were  pretty  quick  and  made  great  fun  for  a  little  while, 
but  their  backs  were  weak.  I  gave  half  a  dozen  or  so 
a  playful  slap,  and  they  would  lie  down  and  be  right  in 
the  way  of  our  tag  game.  I  saw  a  man  coming  with  a 
gun,  and  so  had  to  stop  playing  the  ponies. 

I  do  not  get  down  among  the  ranches  often,  but  one 

126 


The  Grizzly  Agrees 

of  the  best  times  I  ever  had  in  my  life  was  in  the  kitchen 
of  a  ranch-house  near  my  home.  The  men  were  all 
away  and  the  women  were  out  in  the  orchard  picking 
fruit.  There  were  two  doors  to  the  kitchen,  one  in  each 
side  of  the  house.  Both  were  open.  I  was  sleeping  in  a 
bunch  of  cottonwoods  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  house 
from  the  orchard  and  not  very  far  away,  when  my 
nostrils  were  assailed  by  a  most  wonderful,  sweetish, 
pungent  aroma.  Cautiously  following  this  up,  I  was 
led  to  one  of  the  open  doors.  Seeing  no  one,  I  went  in. 
The  table  was  covered  with  the  most  delicious  preserved 
fruit  in  little  jars  and  dishes.  I  cleaned  them  out  in  a 
very  few  minutes.  Then  seeing  a  large  pot  of  the  luscious 
stuff  sitting  upon  the  stove,  I  tried  to  take  it  in  my  paws, 
burning  myself  badly  and  spilling  the  fruit  all  over  the 
floor.  Not  wishing  to  be  wasteful,  I  tried  to  lick  up  the 
delectable  mess,  and  burned  my  tongue.  Being  sure  that 
the  whole  thing  was  just  a  trap  set  by  the  tricky  owners, 
I  proceeded  to  wreck  the  place.  The  women  heard  the 
noise  and  came  hurrying  back  from  the  orchard.  Natur- 
ally I  was  in  a  bad  temper.  I  chased  those  women  into 
the  barn.  My  exploring  ability  coming  to  the  fore,  I 
had  just  found  a  way  into  the  building  through  the  pig- 
sty, when  I  was  interrupted  by  some  men  coming  with 
guns.  Anyway,  I  managed  to  kill  the  pig  before  leaving. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  those  men  and  those  guns,  I'm 
sure  I  could  have  entered  that  barn  and  played  with 
the  women  ! 

I  certainly  agree  with  the  author  of  the  story  in  the 
magazine,  that  men  should  not  be  allowed  to  hunt  us 
nor  carry  guns.  Believing  in  Karma,  which  is  the  uni- 
versal law  of  retributive  justice,  I  further  agree  that  we 
"  all  will  be  losers  if  we  fail  to  protect  and  perpetuate 
the  heroic  grizzly  bear."  There  is  no  doubt  but  that 
our  "  existence  in  the  wild  places  will  enliven  the 

127 


With  Gun      >  Rod  in  Canada 


imagination   and  touch  the  outdoors  with  a  primeval 
spell." 

Give  us  ten  years  of  a  close  season,  and  we  can  pass 
on  to  our  devachanic  rest,  because  life  will  not  be  worth 
living  without  human  beings  to  play  with. 


128 


The  Business  of  Moose-Hunting 

THE  question  is  often  asked  by  sportsmen  how 
it  happens  that  a  licensed  guide,  or  other  pro- 
fessional woodsman,  can  go  out  into  the  wilds  of 
Nova  Scotia  and  come  back  with  a  fine  bull  moose  in  one 
or  two  days,  but  if  he  is  hired  for  the  purpose  of  giving  a 
sportsman  a  shot  at  a  moose,  he  is  often  gone  a  week  or 
ten  days  before  the  sportsman  gets  an  opportunity  to 
either  see  or  kill  one.  Some  amateur  hunters  even  go 
so  far  as  to  say  that  a  guide  purposely  prolongs  a  hunt 
with  the  idea  of  getting  more  money  out  of  the  sports- 
man. 

Admitting  that  it  is  frequently  a  fact  that  as  soon  as  a 
visitor  has  killed  a  moose  he  wishes  to  take  the  head  and 
get  back  to  civilization  so  he  can  triumphantly  tell  his 
friends  all  about  it,  the  average  guide  would  rather  have 
a  moose  shot  quickly  and  get  the  advertising  that  a 
successful  expedition  gives  him,  than  to  prolong  a 
hunt  and  perhaps  miss  entirely  the  opportunity  of 
securing  a  trophy.  He  wishes  to  avoid  the  possibility 
of  bringing  his  charge  back  wearied,  disappointed,  and 
sore. 

Guides  know  from  experience  that  a  man  in  this  frame 
of  mind  is  usually  hard  to  settle  with,  and  that  he  figures 
the  cost  of  the  trip  down  to  the  last  detail,  whereas 
if  he  gets  a  fine  head  he  is  more  than  willing  to  slip  his 
successful  guide  quite  a  bonus  over  and  above  the  actual 
charges. 

So  much  for  that  phase  of  moose-hunting.  There  are 

129  i 


With  Gun     P  Rod  in  Canada 


many  other  whys  and  wherefores  that  puzzle  some  return- 
ing hunters.  Most  of  them  can  be  explained  if  a  little 
time  and  effort  is  spent  in  investigating  the  conditions 
as  they  exist.  When  guides  take  amateur  sportsmen  into 
the  woods,  they  have  to  consider  their  employers'  physical 
comfort;  they  have  to  avoid  dangerous  situations; 
observe  the  various  phases  of  the  weather;  plan  to  have  a 
good  dry  camp  each  night  with  plenty  of  wood;  size  up 
carefully  the  physical  limitations  of  their  sportsmen,  and 
confine  their  hunting  to  such  locality,  topography, 
and  methods  as  their  employers  seem  to  be  able  to 
undertake. 

Too  much  whisky  in  camp  saves  the  life  of  many  a 
fine  bull. 

The  copious  use  of  it  induces  late  rising  and  slothful 
hunting. 

Excessive  use  of  coarse,  .greasy  food  served  in  the 
woods  is  nearly  as  great  a  detriment  as  too  much  liquid 
stimulant.  Outdoor  air  and  exercise  sharpen  jaded 
appetites,  and  unless  a  sportsman  is  wise  and  moderate 
his  first  few  days  of  hunting  are  marred  by  acute 
indigestion. 

When  a  man  has  to  sit  for  hours  on  the  edge  of  a  cold, 
wet  bog  in  the  early  morning,  waiting  for  a  bull  to  come 
to  a  call,  it  takes  both  stamina  and  patience.  If  at  the 
same  time  he  is  suffering  from  heartburn,  he  is  being 
truly  martyred. 

In  still-hunting,  a  conscientious  guide  does  not  wish 
to  kill  a  moose  where  he  would  be  obliged  to  leave  the 
meat  in  the  woods  ;  consequently  he  confines  his  hunting 
to  a  country  where  the  meat  can  be  easily  gotten  out  to 
his  canoe.  When  practising  the  art  of  calling,  a  guide 
can  so  place  himself  that  the  moose  will  be  killed  com- 
paratively near  water  transportation.  The  guide  is 
aware  that  if  his  charge  kills  a  moose  it  means  a  great 

130 


The  Business  of  Moose-Hunting 

many  hours  of  hard  work  to  skin,  dress,  cut  up  and  carry 
the  various  parts  of  the  gigantic  animal  to  the  canoe; 
and  at  the  same  time  he  has  to  make  camp,  feed  and 
chaperon  his  "  sport,"  in  addition  to  looking  after 
himself.  Every  move  the  guide  makes  is  limited  by  the 
capacity  of  his  employer  to  take  care  of  himself  in  the 
woods. 

When  the  professional  guide  or  hunter  goes  hunting 
in  the  Rossignol  district  of  Nova  Scotia  he  takes  a  very 
small,  light  tent,  one  blanket  or  quilt,  a  kettle,  salt 
bread,  tea,  and  a  chunk  of  pork  or  moose  meat.  He  has 
plenty  of  matches,  cartridges  and  his  rifle,  an  axe,  burlap 
bag  and  pack-strap.  He  has  no  boxes  of  canned  goods, 
no  extra  clothing,  no  dishes,  camera,  game-bags,  or 
fancy  paraphernalia.  He  carries  the  bare  essentials  to 
existence  only.  He  packs  this  in  a  small,  light,  canvas- 
covered  canoe  and  starts  off.  He  is  hunting  from  the 
minute  his  paddle  first  touches  the  water.  He  makes 
no  noise.  If  it  is  calm  and  frosty,  he  will  call  any  time 
during  the  day  or  night  when  it  is  light  enough  to  see  to 
shoot.  If  the  weather  is  not  right  for  calling,  he  leaves 
his  canoe  at  a  convenient  spot  on  the  shore  of  a  lake  or 
river,  puts  a  chunk  of  bread  and  meat  into  his  pocket 
with  a  pinch  of  salt  and  tea,  and  with  his  cup,  axe,  and 
rifle  starts  on  his  hunt.  If  night  overtakes  him  and 
there  is  bad  country  between  him  and  his  canoe,  he 
simply  builds  a  fire  and  stays  right  where  he  is  until 
morning.  If  he  is  in  a  good  moose  country  and  the 
morning  is  calm,  he  will  call  right  from  his  camp-fire. 
For  supper  and  breakfast  he  will  eat  dry  bread,  some  pork 
or  moose  meat,  make  strong  black  tea  in  his  tin  cup  with- 
out sugar  or  milk,  and  be  satisfied. 

If  he  kills  a  moose  he  scientifically  disembowels  him, 
skins  and  quarters  the  animal;  and  if  far  from  his  canoe, 
cuts  out  a  great  deal  of  the  bone  and  subdivides  the 

131 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

quarters  so  he  will  have  less  weight  to  carry.  When  he 
gets  back  to  the  canoe  with  his  first  load,  if  it  is  raining 
or  cold  he  will  usually  put  up  his  little  tent,  gather  a 
good  pile  of  dry  firewood,  eat  some  more  meat  and 
bread,  and  drink  his  strong  black  tea  before  he  goes 
back  for  the  next  load.  He  will  often  spend  a  full  day 
packing  out  moose  meat,  eating  a  little  lunch  between 
each  trip.  By  night-time  he  is  tired  and  sleepy,  but  if 
the  weather  is  calm  and  he  wishes  to  get  across  a  big  lake 
before  a  storm  comes  up,  after  a  rest  he  will  load  his 
canoe  and  start  on  his  homeward  trip  any  time  in  the 
night  that  he  feels  inclined  that  way.  He  really  does 
not  rest  or  eat  a  proper  variety  of  food  until  he  has  his 
moose  head,  hide,  and  meat  at  some  place  where  he  can 
load  it  on  a  wagon.  It  is  quite  the  usual  thing  for 
hunters  to  come  to  Lowe's  Landing,  on  Lake  Rossignol, 
at  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  with  a  moose, 
unload  their  canoes,  pile  their  cargo  on  the  shore,  turn 
the  canoes  over  their  dunnage,  walk  twelve  miles  to 
Caledonia  and  walk  back  with  an  ox  team,  put  their 
load  on  the  wagon,  and  walk  out  again  without  stopping 
anywhere  to  sleep. 

They  sacrifice  all  thought  of  sleep  or  physical  comfort 
until  they  have  safely  landed  the  moose  in  the  settle- 
ment. 

When  two  men  go  together  it  simplifies  the  work 
somewhat. 

If  a  guide  should  put  a  sportsman  through  a  course 
of  sprouts  such  as  the  above,  if  it  did  not  kill  him,  it 
would  at  least  preclude  the  possibility  of  the  guide  ever 
being  hired  again. 

Luckily  the  amateur  sportsman  that  habitually 
journeys  into  the  Nova  Scotia  woods  to  hunt  big  game, 
does  so  to  gain  health  and  have  a  good  time.  If  he  gets 
a  fine  head  he  is  tremendously  pleased,  and  the  guide 

132 


The  Business  of  Moose- Hunting 

is  tickled  to  death.  If  he  does  not  get  a  trophy  he 
usually  gets  plenty  of  fish  and  small  game,  has  a  pictur- 
esque and  comfortable  camping  trip,  and  leaves  the 
woods  with  but  faint  disappointment  at  not  running 
down  a  big  bull. 


133 


Sporting  Innocents  Abroad 

THE  boys  who  have  been  in  the  trenches  probably 
would  not  deign  to  notice  such  little  hardships 
and  physical  discomforts  as  are  to  be  encountered 
upon  a  spring  and  summer  fishing  and  hunting  trip, 
but  to  the  many  who  were  unlucky  enough  not  to  be 
called  and  partake  of  the  advantages  coincident  with 
military  service,  a  camping  trip  will  present  a  great 
many  new  and  uncomfortable  dilemmas.  Especially 
is  this  the  case  when  such  an  expedition  is  undertaken 
in  the  wilderness  and  actually  out  of  touch  with  civiliza- 
tion. 

We  will  presume  that  the  reader  is  going  to  have  a 
combination  canoe,  tenting,  and  trout-fishing  trip  in 
the  Lake  Rossignol  district  of  Nova  Scotia.  His  last 
contact  with  civilization  would  be  at  the  hotel  in  Cale- 
donia. He  would  be  driven  or  motored  twelve  miles 
to  Lowe's  Landing,  upon  Lake  Rossignol.  The  first 
six  miles  would  be  through  a  sparsely  settled  farming 
country,  while  the  last  six  would  be  entirely  through 
an  uninhabited  wilderness  of  trees  and  rocks.  At  the 
point  of  embarkation  he  would  find  his  guide  and  canoe 
awaiting  him.  There  is  a  log  sporting  camp  at  this 
place  where  guides,  canoes,  and  supplies  are  available. 
He  would  probably  have  lunch  at  this  camp,  served  in 
quite  a  civilized  manner,  and  would  be  inclined  to  think 
that  if  this  were  life  in  the  woods,  assuredly  it  was  no 
hardship.  He  does  not  yet  feel  out  of  touch  with  things 
he  has  been  used  to. 
As  the  guide  gets  ready  to  push  the  canoe  off  into  the 

134 


Sporting  Innocents  Abroad 

waters  of  Lake  Rossignol,  with  his  novitiate  in  the  bow, 
provisions  and  tent  stowed  compactly  amidships,  and 
himself  kneeling  cautiously  in  the  stern,  the  situation 
takes  on  an  entirely  new  aspect.  The  guide  inquires 
casually: 

"  Mr.  Newman,  have  you  ever  been  in  a  canoe  before  ?" 
If  the  answer  is  in  the  negative,  the  guide  from  that 
moment  watches  every  move  of  his  charge  with  fatherly 
solicitude.  If  the  answer  is  in  the  affirmative,  he  will 
suggest  that  the  passenger  demonstrate  his  ability  by 
using  the  bow  paddle.  The  first  half-dozen  strokes 
will  prove  the  truth  or  falsity  of  the  statement  to  the 
guide's  experienced  eye,  and  he  will  conduct  himself 
accordingly. 

At  this  point  it  might  be  as  well  to  explain  the  social, 
ethical,  and  business  status  of  a  licensed  sportsman's 
guide  in  the  Canadian  woods.  The  novice  wants  to 
forget  the  quite  common  and  erroneous  idea  that  a 
licensed  guide  is  a  servant  in  the  sense  of  being  a  menial. 
He  is  licensed  by  the  Government  to  protect,  with  his 
life  if  necessary,  the  visiting  sportsman  from  all  the 
dangers  of  whatever  nature,  and  at  the  same  time  protect 
the  forest  from  conflagrations  that  might  be  started  by 
the  careless  or  ignorant,  and  to  protect  the  fish  and 
game  from  illegal  slaughter.  He  is  a  direct  representa- 
tive of  the  great  Canadian  Government,  and  it  is  against 
the  law  for  any  sportsman,  outside  of  a  resident  taxpayer, 
to  hunt,  fish,  or  even  camp  in  the  Canadian  woods 
without  first  employing  the  services  of  a  licensed  guide. 
Socially  he  is  very  likely  upon  as  high  a  plane  in  his 
community  as  the  visitor  when  at  home.  If  he  were 
not  a  good,  sober,  taxpaying,  industrious  citizen,  he 
would  never  have  been  appointed  a  guide.  Treat  him 
as  a  friend  and  equal,  and  you  will  find  that  he  is  a  friend 
indeed,  all  the  while  you  are  in  the  woods.  Having  a 

135 


With  Gun  £?  Rod  in  Canada 


very  clear  conception  of  the  ethics  involved  and  his 
duties,  your  guide  will  seldom  take  advantage  of  the 
fact  that  you  are  meeting  him  upon  terms  of  equality. 
As  a  class  they  take  pride  and  pleasure  in  waiting  upon 
you,  teaching,  and  making  you  as  comfortable  as  possible. 

Now  to  return  to  the  change  that  takes  place  in  your 
existence  the  moment  you  put  yourself  in  a  guide's 
hands  and  start  out  for  a  week's  outing  in  a  seventeen- 
foot  canvas  canoe. 

Remember  that  all  your  eggs  are  in  one  basket. 

If  you  are  careless  in  your  movements,  you  may  tip 
the  craft  over,  lose  your  provisions,  and  perhaps  even 
your  life.  Though  you  may  save  the  latter  more  or 
less  valuable  commodity,  an  immediate  trip  back  to  a 
base  of  supplies  is  necessary  in  order  to  refit,  with  a  conse- 
quent loss  of  time  and  money.  Rough  handling  of  the 
canoe  among  rocks  and  snags  may  result  in  tearing  a 
hole  in  the  light  fabric  with  which  it  is  covered,  resulting 
in  serious  consequences.  Careless  handling  of  firearms 
is  an  abomination  that  no  guide  will  tolerate.  Wasting 
food  is  also  to  be  guarded  against.  If  you  are  not  an 
experienced  axe-man,  never  touch  your  guide's  axe. 
There  are  two  reasons  for  this.  They  are  both  important. 
The  first  is  that  you  are  liable  to  cut  yourself  and  bleed 
to  death  before  you  can  be  moved  to  medical  assistance; 
and  the  second  is  that  you  are  apt  to  so  dull  or  break  the 
edge  of  the  axe  that  nothing  short  of  a  grindstone  will 
make  it  fit  for  use,  and  neither  grindstones  nor  axes  grow 
on  trees.  Without  a  sharp  axe  it  is  impossible  for  a 
guide  to  do  his  work  of  making  camp. 

You  may  have  some  very  exhilarating  "  runs "  down 
over  rapids.  If  your  guide  hesitates  about  running  you 
over  any  particular  rapid,  do  not  insist  upon  his  doing 
so.  He  probably  knows  that  certain  falls  are  dangerous, 
and  he  very  properly  avoids  taking  an  unnecessary 

136 


Sporting  Innocents  Abroad 

chance.  Whatever  he  may  volunteer  in  the  nature  of 
advice  does  not  cost  you  anything  extra.  No  matter 
how  timidly  or  casually  it  is  tendered,  try  to  take  it  to 
heart  and  remember  it.  If  you  are  a  drinking  man, 
do  not  insist  upon  your  guide's  partaking  of  your  hos- 
pitality to  such  an  extent  that  it  will  incapacitate  him 
for  attending  to  his  job. 

The  first  night  in  the  woods  will  be  a  brand-new 
experience.  If  you  wish  to  be  comfortable,  give  your 
guide  at  least  two  hours  before  dark  to  get  camp  and 
supper  ready.  It  is  difficult  to  prepare  a  satisfactory 
camp  in  less  than  two  hours  of  daylight.  The  tent  site 
will  be  selected,  not  for  its  scenic  value,  but  because 
the  ground  is  level  and  dry,  near  wood  and  spring  water. 
First,  there  is  the  tent  to  pitch;  then  there  are  two 
large  bundles  of  hemlock  "  feathers  "  to  collect  for  a 
mattress  upon  which  to  lay  your  blankets;  then  there 
are  fish  to  clean,  a  cook-fire  to  be  built,  supper  to  be 
cooked,  served  and  eaten,  dishes  to  be  washed,  and  food 
to  be  placed  out  of  reach  of  nocturnal  four-legged 
marauders.  A  large  quantity  of  wood  must  be  cut  to 
keep  a  good  fire  in  front  of  the  tent  all  night.  If  it 
looks  like  rain,  dry  kindlings  will  be  prepared  and  stored 
in  a  corner  of  the  tent  for  the  breakfast  fire. 

After  a  few  nights  in  the  woods  you  can  be  of  con- 
siderable assistance  to  your  guide  in  preparing  camp, 
and  the  outdoor  exercise  and  fresh  air  will  make  you  so 
sleepy  that  you  can  sleep  like  a  top  with  your  blankets 
laid  on  the  ground  without  the  hemlock  "  feathers." 

You  will  find  the  food  a  little  greasy  but  wholesome. 
Be  careful  not  to  over-indulge  the  first  few  days  of  your 
trip,  and  you  will  not  suffer  from  indigestion.  Being 
physically  overtired  and  ravenously  hungry  at  the 
same  time  is  a  combination  which  demands  moral 
courage  and  foresight.  The  digestive  organs  are  not  in 

137 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 

condition  to  take  care  of  an  unusual  amount  of  fried 
trout,  fried  potatoes  and  onions,  hot  biscuit,  canned 
peaches,  and  strong  tea  or  coffee.  Toward  the  end  of 
your  excursion  you  can  eat  anything  or  everything, 
and  as  much  as  you  can  hold  without  fear  of  discomfort. 

You  will  sleep  with  your  clothes  on.  The  very  first 
night  you  will  probably  not  sleep  very  much.  You  will 
be  too  warm,  then  too  cold.  Your  bed,  which  felt  like 
an  Ostermoor  when  you  lay  down,  quickly  develops  all 
sorts  of  knots,  snags,  and  bumps;  a  spider  crawls  across 
your  face;  a  toad  hops  in  the  grass  outside  of  the  tent, 
and  you  imagine  it  is  a  bear;  you  are  sure  there  is  a  flock 
of  earwigglers  getting  ready  to  beat  a  tattoo  upon  your 
ear-drums;  you  twist  and  turn  and  find  lumps  every- 
where; you  wake  the  guide  and  tell  him  about  something 
rattling  the  dishes;  you  marvel  at  his  indifference,  and 
also  at  the  nonchalant  way  in  which  he  lies  half  in  and 
half  out  of  the  tent,  with  his  woollen  socks  smoking  in 
the  heat  of  the  camp-fire  coals;  you  get  up  and  replenish 
the  fire,  gazing  furtively  the  while  into  the  lowering 
forest  surrounding  you.  Making  your  bed  once  more, 
it  dawns  upon  you  that  you  would  be  more  comfortable 
if  you  removed  your  moccasins.  Then  you  take  a  bunch 
of  keys  out  of  one  pocket  and  a  wicked-looking  jack-knife 
out  of  another,  a  pocket-book  out  of  another,  immedi- 
ately followed  by  a  watch,  a  compass,  a  matchbox,  a 
tobacco  pouch,  a  cigarette-case  and  a  pipe.  You  dis- 
cover that  your  hat  is  the  only  safe  place  in  which  to 
deposit  these  appurtenances  of  a  fully  equipped  sports- 
man. You  roll  up  your  slicker  or  storm-coat  for  a 
pillow,  and  pulling  the  blankets  up  to  your  chin,  stretch 
hopefully  out  once  more.  Much  to  your  surprise  the 
lumps  in  your  bed  have  all  disappeared.  You  are  now 
due  for  a  little  sleep,  and  get  it,  only  to  be  disturbed  by 
the  guide  calling,  "  Breakfast !" 


Sporting  Innocents  Abroad 

Rolling  out,  you  shiver  in  the  early  dawn.  A  hasty 
wash  in  the  stream,  followed  by  a  cup  of  black  tea,  gets 
your  drowsy  wits  working,  and  you  begin  to  take  an 
interest  in  the  day's  happenings.  After  a  good  breakfast 
of  ham  and  eggs,  marmalade  and  cold  biscuit,  you  take 
your  place  stiffly  in  the  bow  of  the  canoe,  and  the  guide 
pushes  off.  You  are  not  over-enthusiastic.  You  find 
your  casting  arm  is  sore,  and  you  handle  the  rod 
awkwardly.  Perhaps  you  snag  the  line,  or  maybe  lodge 
it  in  the  branches  of  an  overhanging  tree,  although 
your  companion  warned  you  about  the  back  cast.  You 
handle  the  fish  roughly  and  lose  a  good  many.  Lame, 
tired,  and  out  of  sorts,  all  nature  seems  to  conspire 
against  you.  Being  particularly  careless  in  one  back 
cast,  you  hook  the  guide  in  his  cap,  or  mayhap  in  his 
ear.  Although  unaware  of  it,  you  are  learning  what  to 
do  and  what  not  to  do.  The  guide  finally  suggests 
quietly  that  you  stop  fishing  and  have  a  smoke  while  he 
poles  you  up  over  a  nice  little  run.  This  interests  you 
and  gets  your  mind  off  yourself  and  your  troubles. 
Perhaps  he  entertains  you  by  antithetical  tales  of  the 
river  or  woods,  or  sings  chanteys.  You've  been  acting 
like  a  tired,  spoiled  child,  and  without  your  realizing  it, 
he  is  trying  to  divert  you,  and  usually  succeeds.  When 
he  thinks  you  have  recovered  your  equilibrium,  he 
suggests  that  you  cast  in  "  that  there  eddy  behind  that 
big  rock." 

As  the  fly  strikes  the  water  there  is  a  splash,  a  sharp 
tug,  and  you  have  hooked  a  big  one.  The  fight  is  on. 
After  five  minutes  of  most  exciting  sport  and  skilful 
handling  upon  your  part,  the  guide  deftly  slips  the  dip- 
net  under  a  three-pounder.  You  feel  a  man  again. 

As  the  sun  gets  hot  and  the  blackflies  begin  to  annoy, 
you  float  downstream  to  the  tent.  You  are  suffering 
from  sunburn.  The  guide  suggests  cold  cream  or  white 

139 


With  Gun     ?  Rod  in  Canada 


vaseline.  Not  having  any  in  your  kit,  you  are  much 
surprised  when  he  produces  a  large  tube  of  the  soothing 
lotion,  which  he  carries  for  just  such  emergencies.  The 
only  difference  between  his  brand  of  cold  cream  and  the 
kind  you  are  used  to  is  that  it  smells  to  high  heaven  of 
oil  of  cedar  or  pennyroyal.  This  keeps  away  the  flies. 
Smearing  yourself  lavishly,  you  select  a  shady,  breezy 
spot  beneath  the  trees  and  have  a  regular  sleep. 

A  light  lunch,  a  fine  afternoon's  fishing,  and  you  have 
completed  the  first  cycle  of  your  existence  in  the  wilds. 

The  second  night  is  better  than  the  first,  and  you  enjoy 
the  succeeding  days  and  nights  with  increasing  pleasure. 
You  are  getting  stronger,  hardier,  and  more  independent 
every  hour.  An  occasional  glimpse  of  a  moose,  bear, 
deer,  or  humble  "  porky  "  lends  a  primeval  spell  to  the 
solitude.  If  you  have  a  Kodak,  you  take  some  wonderful 
pictures.  Scenes  and  incidents  imprint  themselves 
ineffaceably  upon  your  mind. 

Finally  the  day  comes  when  you  and  your  companion 
must  point  the  prow  of  your  faithful  little  bark  down- 
stream for  Lowe's  Landing  and  home.  You  leave  the 
woods  behind  with  regrets  and  many  pleasant  memories, 
say  good-bye  to  your  friend  the  guide,  and  head  for 
civilization. 

Sitting  at  your  desk  in  the  far-away  city,  you  find  time 
for  many  brief  reveries.  As  you  think  of  your  thrilling 
first  fishing  trip,  you  marvel  that  you  remember  vividly 
the  delights  and  but  vaguely  its  discomforts. 


140 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

I.— HANDLING  THE  CANOE  IN  UPSTREAM 
WORK  WITH  A  POLE 

WHEN  I  was  fourteen  years  old,  my  father,  after 
much  urging,  purchased  for  me  a  sixteen-foot 
canvas-covered  canoe,  which  I  used  for  several 
years  on  the  placid  water  of  the  Charles  River  at  Auburn- 
dale,  Mass.  I  had  some  nice  corduroy-covered,  curled- 
hair  cushions  to  put  in  the  bottom,  and  I  persuaded 
nearly  every  young  lady  of  my  acquaintance  to  make  a 
fancy  feather  cushion  to  further  furnish  the  craft.  I 
had  little  silk  flags  for  the  bow  and  stern,  and  by  the 
end  of  the  first  summer  my  canoe  looked  like  a  floating 
advertisement  for  a  merchant  who  made  a  speciality  of 
fitting  up  Turkish  smoking-rooms  or  ladies'  boudoirs. 

There  was  not  one  cushion  in  the  lot  that  was  a  life- 
preserver  in  case  of  accident.  Floating  around  the 
quiet  Charles  in  the  moonlight,  listening  to  the  band 
concerts  with  similarly  inclined  athletes  of  the  opposite 
sex,  was  about  the  most  strenuous  exercise  that  I  knew 
of  in  connection  with  canoeing  outside  of  one  or  two 
canoe  races  in  which  I  took  part. 

There  was  a  little  "  run  "  up-river  from  the  Auburn- 
dale  boat-houses  about  seventy-five  feet  long,  where  the 
current  must  have  flowed  at  the  rate  of  about  two 
miles  per  hour.  When  I  desired  to  make  a  deep  impression 
on  my  canoe  partner  as  to  my  prowess,  I  would  tackle  this 
mighty  run  with  grim  determination.  It  used  to  be  a 
terrible  struggle  ! 

141 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 

I  was,  as  I  remember,  generally  successful  in  guiding 
my  craft  safely  into  the  still  water  above  the  run,  where 
with  a  long  sigh  after  my  Herculean  efforts  we  would  sit 
and  look  at  each  other  with  mutual  admiration.  The 
run  down  also  was  exhilarating,  therebeing  one  menacing 
rock  which  had  to  be  avoided  with  rare  skill  as  we  drifted 
toward  the  boat-house. 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  the  natural  placidity  of  the 
Charles  River  between  Waltham  and  Newton  Lower 
Falls,  drowning  accidents  were  regrettably  frequent, 
as  the  boat  liveries  would  lease  a  canoe  to  anyone  who 
came  along  with  the  required  deposit.  The  most 
frequent  cause  of  the  capsizing  of  a  canoe  was  over- 
confidence  in  its  stability.  Accidents  were  caused  by 
the  occupants  of  the  craft  trying  to  change  places  or 
standing  up.  I  was  not  naturally  overcautious,  but  I 
heartily  disliked  the  humiliation  of  thoroughly  wetting 
and  spoiling  my  canoe  furnishings,  which  generally 
included  a  girl. 

Consequently,  I  learned  at  an  early  age  that  accidents 
in  a  canoe  could  be  avoided  by  remembering  three  things : 
To  sit  down,  sit  in  the  middle,  and  sit  still.  Looking 
back  on  two  decades  of  the  most  strenuous  kind  of 
canoeing  for  business  and  pleasure,  I  find  that  these  three 
rules  are  still  applicable  when  using  a  canoe  anywhere. 
Standing  up  in  a  canoe  is  never  without  danger,  but, 
like  walking  a  slack  wire,  it  is  a  good  trick  if  you  can 
do  it,  and  a  tremendous  time  and  energy  saver  when  the 
alternative  is  to  unload  a  heavily  laden  canoe,  portage 
the  supplies  around  a  fall  or  rapid,  and  carry  the  canoe 
around  also. 

Now,  believing  that  a  reader  of  this  book  would  not  be 
at  all  interested  in  this  matter  of  poling  a  canoe  in  swift 
water  unless  he  had  had  previous  canoe  training,  I  have 
endeavoured  to  so  take  the  photographs  that  they  depict 

142 


I. THE    CORRECT    POSITION    FOR 

POLTNG     A      LIGHT       CANOE       UP       THE 
RAPIDS. 


2. — 1  SHOULD  HAVE  PULLED  THE  STERN 
TOWARDS  THE  RIGHT  AND  GOT  IT 
CLFAR  OF  THE  RETURN  CURRENT. 


3  — FIFTY  FEET  FROM  THE  CAMERA. 
POLE  IS  PULLED  TOWARDS  THE 
STERN  TO  TCRN  BOW  MORE  TO  LEFT. 


4.  —BE  SURE  YOUR  CANOE  IS  HEADED 
FAIRLY  UPSTREAM,  SO  THE  CURRENT 
WILL  NOT  SWING  IT. 

To  fare  p.  742. 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

for  the  benefit  of  the  experienced  eye  the  more  essential 
positions  of  the  operator  when  using  a  pole  under  varied 
conditions. 

A  careful  study  of  the  photographs  will  visualize  for 
the  reader  the  relative  positions  of  operator,  pole,  canoe, 
and  current  in  typical  situations. 

I  am  going  to  advise  the  reader  who  wishes  to  pole 
a  canoe  in  swift  water  from  a  standing  position,  first 
to  take  his  canoe  in  shallow  water  on  the  edge  of  a 
placid  lake,  then  try  standing  up  and  pushing  himself 
along  with  a  pike-pole.  A  little  practice  of  this  sort 
may  assist  him  to  keep  his  balance,  and  he  should  be 
able  after  a  half-hour's  practice  to  gather  unto  himself 
all  that  there  is  to  learn  in  handling  a  canoe  this 
way. 

Also  he  is  very  likely  to  tip  over  and  get  wet.  This 
should  give  him  an  opportunity  to  learn  the  "  alphabet 
of  the  game,"  and  also  how  it  feels  to  jump  in  smooth 
water  "  before  jumping  into  swift-water  work." 

Of  course,  outside  practice  in  balancing,  there  is  no 
object  in  poling  a  canoe  in  still,  placid  water.  A  paddle 
would  be  much  more  practical. 

After  having  practised  awhile  in  calm,  shallow  water, 
you  have  arrived  at  an  advanced  stage  of  self-confidence 
and  have  keenly  developed  your  sense  of  balance,  and  you 
will  naturally  wish  to  try  your  luck  in  swift  water.  Do 
not  be  surprised  when  you  find  that  immediately  upon 
striking  the  current  your  canoe  will  come  suddenly  to  life, 
and  will  try  to  do  all  sorts  of  crazy  stunts  that  it  would 
never  think  of  doing  in  still  water. 

At  this  point  you  will  probably  join  with  our  friend 
Irving  Cobb  in  what  he  said  to  the  food  controller  when 
the  latter  ostensibly  tried  to  interfere  with  the  first 
square  meal  that  Irving  was  able  to  get  hold  of  after 
returning  home  from  the  front,  viz. : 

H3 


With  Gun  ft?  Rod  in  Canada 


"  Herb,  stand  back  !  Stand  well  back,  Herb,  to  avoid 
being  splashed  !" 

I  will  never  forget  the  first  time  I  saw  a  Nova  Scotia 
guide  stand  up  in  his  canoe  and  pole  over  a  swift  run. 
I  thought  he  was  crazy.  It  was  about  fourteen  years 
ago.  I  had  been  trout-fishing  down  the  Kejimkujik 
River  from  Fairy  Lake  to  Lake  Rossignol.  There  were 
practically  seven  miles  of  falls  and  rapids. 

We  were  tenting  at  a  place  called  Arthur's  Ledges,  and 
after  lunch  I  suggested  to  one  of  the  ladies  in  the  party 
that  she  should  go  out  with  me  in  one  of  the  canoes  and 
fish  without  taking  a  guide  along.  She  stepped  into  the 
canoe  and  I  pushed  off.  The  current  was  very  swift, 
and  immediately  it  swept  us  downstream  sideways. 
I  had  no  pole,  and  would  not  have  known  how  to  use  it 
if  I  had  had  one.  I  finally  succeeded  in  getting  the 
canoe  headed  upstream,  but  the  current  was  too  strong 
for  me  to  paddle  against,  and  was  rapidly  sweeping 
us  toward  the  next  falls.  I  succeeded  in  running  the 
canoe  ashore  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below  the  camp 
and  on  the  opposite  shore.  I  was  frightened,  and  of 
course  humiliated.  A  guide  answered  my  distress 
signal,  paddled  down  with  his  canoe,  took  us  both  aboard, 
tied  my  canoe  astern  of  his  with  a  long  painter, 
stood  up  in  his  canoe  with  a  pole,  and  landed  us 
safely  back  at  camp  in  about  five  minutes.  He  chatted 
pleasantly  with  the  lady  on  the  way  up.  The  mem- 
bers of  the  camping  party  were  all  quite  polite,  and 
did  not  discuss  the  incident  at  length  during  the  entire 
trip. 

After  considerable  pondering  upon  the  subject  of 
canoes,  paddling,  swift  water,  and  poling,  I  concluded 
I  still  had  quite  a  lot  to  learn.  For  the  next  two  days 
I  worked  the  guides  in  shifts,  and  spent  most  of  the  time 
having  them  pole  me  up  over  the  various  rapids  and 

144 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 


falls,  and  watched  them  most  carefully.  I  also  watched 
how  they  handled  the  canoe  with  pole  and  paddle  in 
running  down. 

Although  during  the  previous  few  days  I  had  come 
down  over  five  miles  of  running  water,  I  had  most  of  the 
time  been  kneeling  in  the  bow  of  my  canoe,  fishing  with 
my  back  to  the  guide.  Consequently,  I  had  not  watched 
his  manipulation  with  either  paddle  or  pole,  and  with 
every  confidence  in  his  ability,  had  immensely  enjoyed 
the  exhilarating  rushes  down  over  the  rapids  and  falls. 
I  did  not  observe  how  the  canoe  was  being  handled,  nor 
particularly  care  just  what  the  guide  did  so  long  as  he 
got  me  back  to  camp. 

At  the  end  of  two  days  I  had  my  guides  pretty  well 
worn  out  with  continual  poling.  They  could  not 
understand  why  I  was  so  restless,  as  the  fishing  was 
excellent  anywhere  in  the  river.  Neither  could  they 
understand  why  I  sat  in  the  bottom  with  my  back  to  the 
bow,  which  is  a  most  awkward  way  to  fish  going  down- 
stream, although  convenient  enough  for  trolling  up, 
providing  you  keep  your  line  clear  of  the  guide's 
pole. 

Two  days  later  we  had  crossed  Lake  Rossignol  and 
were  on  our  way  up  the  Shelburne  River,  and  camped 
at  Kempton's  Dam.  Just  above  our  camp  site  is  as  stiff 
a  little  run  as  there  is  on  the  whole  river,  known  as 
Little  Kempton  Falls.  This  run  is  about  three  hundred 
yards  long  and  is  simply  a  series  of  cascades.  It  is  very 
rapid.  At  the  foot  of  the  run  is  a  large,  whirling,  deep 
eddy.  It  was  on  this  run  that  I  learned  to  pole  a  canoe 
standing  up. 

About  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  following  the 
day  we  made  camp  at  Kempton's  Dam,  the  whole  party, 
with  the  exception  of  the  author,  had  gone  down  to  fish 
the  run  below  the  falls.  I  took  my  little  sixteen-foot 

145  K 


With  Gun      >  Rod  in  Canada 


basswood  Lakefield  canoe  (she  was  a  little  too  round  on 
the  bottom,  but  as  sleek  as  an  eel),  tied  one  paddle  to  the 
thwarts,  took  the  pole,  and  headed  for  Little  Kempton 
Falls,  just  above  the  camp. 

When  I  got  to  the  foot  of  the  run,  I  stood  up  in  the 
canoe  and  started  to  pole  up  over  the  first  swift  water. 
I  made  good  headway  for  about  two  lengths  of  the  boat, 
when  she  seemed  to  start  off  sideways,  and  I  could  not 
head  her  upstream.  The  current  caught  her  and  quick 
as  a  flash  whipped  her  sideways  against  a  rock,  and  I 
went  overboard.  The  canoe  and  I  landed  in  the  eddy 
at  the  foot  of  the  falls,  still  good  friends. 

I  took  the  canoe  ashore,  dumped  the  water  out  of  her, 
and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  essential,  if  one 
intended  to  go  upstream,  to  keep  the  canoe's  head 
exactly  against  the  current  at  all  times.  One  must 
learn  to  balance  his  canoe,  by  the  "  feel  "  of  the  current, 
exactly  on  the  centre  line  of  the  trend  of  the  stream. 
Permanent  headway  could  not  be  made  otherwise. 
So  I  tried  again. 

This  time  I  was  most  careful  to  keep  the  keel  of  my 
canoe  in  exact  line  with  the  current.  I  made  better 
headway,  and  succeeded  in  getting  up  over  the  first 
few  feet  of  the  run,  when  two  converging  currents  which 
had  been  divided  by  a  big  rock  threw  my  canoe's  head 
sharply  to  the  left,  when  it  was  most  necessary  that  I 
should  keep  her,  if  anything,  a  little  more  to  the  right. 
I  tried  with  all  the  strength  in  my  arms  to  throw  the 
boat's  head  to  the  right,  using  the  pole  as  a  lever,  but 
in  so  doing  I  lost  my  hold  with  the  pole,  was  swept 
into  an  eddy  and  turned  around,  and  was  headed  nicely 
for  camp  before  I  could  get  a  new  hold  with  my 
pole. 

As  my  canoe  was  now  headed  downstream  and  I  was 
in  the  stern,  her  bow  was  pretty  well  out  of  water.  I 

146 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

found  it  most  awkward  to  steer  with  a  pole,  and  con- 
sequently the  bow  of  the  canoe  ran  up  on  a  flat  rock. 
The  swift  water  still  carried  my  stern  downstream,  and 
although  I  was  now  kneeling,  the  current  and  rock 
between  them  did  the  trick  neatly.  Again  the  canoe  and 
I  (both  half  full  of  water)  wound  up  at  the  foot  of  the 
falls  in  the  eddy. 

After  pulling  the  canoe  ashore  and  dumping  the  water 
out,  I  remembered  that  I  had  neglected  to  do  two 
important  things: 

First:  when  a  guide  wished  to  throw  his  canoe's  head 
to  the  right  while  going  upstream,  he  simply  shoved  his 
stern  to  the  left.  The  current  would  then  catch  the 
bow  and  throw  it  to  the  right  or  vice  versa,  depending 
upon  conditions. 

The  second  thing  was  that  I  remembered  the  guides 
were  particularly  careful  to  load  the  canoes  bow-heavy 
in  going  downstream.  With  the  bow  of  the  canoe 
drawing  more  water  than  the  stern,  the  swift,  deep 
currents  keep  a  firm  grip  on  this  part  of  the  canoe,  and 
your  bow  will  naturally  follow  the  deep,  swift  channels. 
Very  little  steering  will  keep  the  stern  out  of  trouble. 

Incidentally,  it  is  much  safer  to  run  a  rapid  or  fall  with 
a  pole  than  with  the  paddles,  providing  the  stream  is 
not  too  deep  for  a  pole  to  reach  bottom.  When  you  get 
going  too  fast,  you  can  drag  your  pole  along  the  bottom 
and  get  the  headway  off  the  canoe,  and  keep  her  under 
such  control  that  you  can  push  into  a  little  bay  or  eddy 
to  readjust  your  load,  or  get  a  look  at  the  water  below 
you. 

To  get  back  to  Little  Kempton  Falls:  I  tried  the 
lower  run  once  more,  and  this  time  experimented  a  bit. 
I  headed  her  a  shade  too  much  to  the  right  with  the 
intention  of  shoving  the  stern  to  the  right  and  so  getting 
the  canoe's  head  back  to  her  proper  course,  square  against 

H7 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 

the  current.  I  was  standing  up  and  using  my  pole  on 
the  right  side  of  the  boat. 

It  flashed  across  my  mind  that  I  had  to  turn  half-way 
round  and  use  the  pole  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  boat, 
in  order  to  shove  the  stern  toward  the  right.  I  gave 
a  quick  little  shove  ahead  to  keep  the  headway  on  the 
canoe,  which  was  a  mistake,  as  the  canoe  was  not  heading 
fair  upstream.  I  then  tried  to  turn  and  shift  the  pole, 
which  was  a  mistake,  as  I  found  that  I  was  too  late,  the 
canoe  being  headed  almost  across  the  stream  and  shooting 
toward  the  bank.  So  I  shifted  the  pole  back  to  the 
right-hand  side  and  shoved  it  toward  the  bottom  as  far 
ahead  as  I  could  reach,  with  the  idea  of  snubbing  the 
canoe  and  turning  her  head  upstream.  This  also  was 
a  mistake.  This  brought  the  canoe  with  the  full  force 
of  the  current  behind  it  up  against  the  pole  amidships, 
and  I  did  the  prettiest  little  pole  vault  out  among  the 
festive  trout  that  was  ever  seen  !  The  water  was  only 
up  to  my  knees,  so  I  turned  and  grabbed  the  canoe  and 
waded  ashore  right  there,  being  now  tired  of  swimming 
around  with  the  canoe  in  the  eddy  at  the  foot  of  the 
falls. 

After  I  got  ashore  and  thought  the  matter  over,  I 
realized  that  I  had  never  seen  a  guide  shift  his  pole  from 
one  side  of  the  canoe  to  the  other,  no  matter  which  way 
he  desired  to  throw  his  boat's  head.  If  he  was  poling 
on  the  right-hand  side  of  his  canoe  and  wanted  to  throw 
his  boat's  head  to  the  right,  he  would  shove  the  stern 
to  the  left.  If  he  wished  to  throw  his  boat's  head  to  the 
left,  he  would  reach  out  with  his  pole  as  far  as  he  could 
and  a  little  ahead,  and  pull  the  stern  towards  the  pole 
to  the  right. 

When  I  got  to  thinking  over  the  pole-vaulting  stunt, 
I  realized  that  I  should  have  dropped  to  my  knees, 
shoved  the  pole  to  bottom  on  the  upstream  side,  and 

148 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

as  near  the  stern  of  the  canoe  as  possible.  This  would 
have  delayed  the  stern  long  enough  for  the  bow  to  swing 
downstream,  when  she  would  have  lain  straight  with 
the  current,  and  I  could  have  easily  held  her  with  a  pole. 
Then,  by  shifting  my  weight  a  little  forward,  I  could 
have  backed  the  canoe  up  against  the  stream  to  quiet 
water,  where  I  could  have  turned  her  around,  or  could 
have  dropped  her  downstream  for  the  same  purpose. 

With  these  conclusions  I  started  upstream  once  more. 
The  water  was  very  heavy,  and  I  decided  to  go  up 
through  a  little  channel  near  the  shore.  Immediately 
I  was  in  trouble.  The  channel  was  rocky  and  crooked, 
and  as  fast  as  I  got  off  one  rock,  I  got  on  another.  Finally 
I  gave  it  up  and  took  the  centre  of  the  big  channel. 

A  large  flat  rock  divided  the  current  and  made  a 
heavy  eddy  about  half-way  up.  I  got  into  this  eddy 
quite  easily  with  the  idea  of  taking  a  rest.  The  return 
current  rushed  me  toward  a  big  rock.  I  lost  my  head 
and  tried  to  shove  up  the  heavy  falls  without  a  rest. 
I  shoved  the  stern  toward  the  left,  which  swung  the 
bow  toward  the  right  and  out  into  the  main  current. 
My  stern  was  still  in  the  return  current  of  the  eddy. 
This  whirled  the  canoe  nearly  crosswise  to  the  stream, 
and  she  shot  for  the  right-hand  bank  like  a  scared  trout 
and  landed  on  a  rock  pile. 

This  convinced  me  that  an  eddy  was  a  poor  thing  to 
depend  upon  in  the  middle  of  a  swift  stream.  If  the 
rock  making  the  eddy  is  flat  and  slopes  down  to  the  water, 
it  is  practically  possible  to  ease  the  bow  of  your  canoe 
up  on  the  flat  rock,  and  the  stern  of  your  canoe  will  hang 
on  one  side  of  the  eddy  or  the  other  between  the  up  and 
down  currents.  Getting  out  of  an  eddy  into  the  current 
for  the  purpose  of  going  upstream  takes  considerable 
care  and  skilful  handling  if  you  wish  to  avoid  a  quick 
trip  ashore,  or  come  to  grief  on  the  rocks  below  you. 

149 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

In  the  case  in  question,  it  was  my  intention  to  leave 
the  rock  that  formed  the  eddy  on  the  left-hand  side, 
as  I  shot  out  into  the  main  stream.  Instead  of  shoving 
the  stern  toward  the  left,  I  should  have  pulled  it  toward 
the  right,  and  got  the  stern  clear  of  the  return  current 
and  into  the  downstream  current  before  trying  to  pole 
up  against  the  falls.  I  should  have  seen  to  it  that  the 
bow  of  my  canoe,  which  was  easily  swung,  being  mostly 
out  of  water,  was  pointed  upstream  just  enough  to  clear 
the  rock.  That  these  conclusions  were  correct  I  imme- 
diately proved  by  shoving  out  into  the  stream,  getting 
into  the  eddy,  poling  out  of  it,  and  shoving  upstream 
against  the  heavy  current  successfully  to  the  head  of 
Little  Kempton  Falls.  I  was  pretty  tired,  but  to  prove 
to  my  own  satisfaction  that  I  had  learned  the  trick  of 
standing  up  in  a  canoe  and  poling  it  up  over  swift  water, 
I  decided  to  run  down,  using  the  pole  to  snub  my  head- 
way, then  pole  up  the  run  from  the  bottom  to  the  top 
without  resting. 

Before  I  was  half-way  up  I  was  completely  out  of 
breath,  and  was  obliged  to  take  it  easily  and  slowly  or 
quit.  Much  to  my  surprise,  I  seemed  to  make  fully 
as  good  headway  when  I  took  my  time  as  I  did  when  I 
tried  to  sprint.  I  found  also  that  the  current,  if  properly 
used,  was  of  considerable  assistance,  acting  much  like 
the  wind  on  the  sails  of  a  tacking  yacht,  the  pole  acting 
as  a  keel  or  centreboard  in  holding  the  craft  against 
making  too  much  leeway,  or,  in  other  words,  against 
going  downstream. 

After  conquering  the  falls  a  second  time,  I  ran  over 
them  again  and  back  to  camp,  satisfied,  wet,  and  all  in. 
It  had  taken  me  three  hours  and  a  half  to  negotiate  a 
little  run  that  I  could  now  go  up  over  with  a  loaded 
canoe  and  a  passenger  in  five  minutes. 

That  afternoon  we  broke  camp  for  the  purpose  of 

150 


I.— ACTION    VERY 

STRENUOUS: 
NOTE  BENDING 
POLE  OPERATOR 
IS  PULLING  STERN 
.  TOWARDS  POLE 
AND  PUSHING 
AHEAD  AT  SAME 

TIME. 


2. — STILL      PUSH- 
ING   AHEAD. 


3  — SHOOTING  THE  RAPIDS.  POLE  IS 
DRAGGED  ALONG  THE  BOTTOM  TO  REDUCE 
HEADWAY  AND  TO  ACT  AS  RUDDER. 


A, — A    HAND-OVER-HAND    "RUN"    OR    ''CLIMB         ON     THE    POLE. 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

going  upstream  to  the  Tobeatic  Country.  I  took 
H.  J.  Frost,  of  fishing-tackle  fame,  in  my  canoe  with  a 
load  of  dunnage,  and  poled  up  over  Little  Kempton 
Falls  as  nonchalantly  as  the  rest  of  the  guides,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  mile  and  a  half  of  the  meanest  kind  of 
swift  water,  known  as  Pollard's  Falls,  and  numerous 
lesser  runs.  We  had  no  accidents. 

That  was  a  great  many  years  ago. 

Since  that  time  there  has  hardly  been  a  season  when  I 
have  not  spent  many  weeks  handling  a  loaded  canoe  in 
swift  water,  often  far  in  the  interior  where  a  capsizing 
accident  would  mean  wet  grub,  spoiled  ammunition, 
and  serious  if  not  fatal  loss.  I  have  yet  to  have  my  first 
serious  accident. 

You  can  handle  a  pole  while  kneeling  in  the  bottom, 
nearly  as  well  as  in  a  standing  position,  and  it  is  a  much 
safer  posture  for  the  amateur.  This  position  necessitates 
a  shorter  pole,  shorter  strokes  with  the  pole,  and  a  shorter 
climb,  or  run,  on  the  pole,  and  there  is  not  so  good  a 
leverage  as  in  the  standing  position. 

In  summing  up  the  poling  of  a  canoe  either  from  a 
standing  (or  kneeling)  position,  remember  the  following 
rules,  and  you  can  be  quite  successful  with  a  little 
practice: 

ist.  Stand  a  little  sidewise  in  the  canoe  with  both  feet 
over  the  keel,  and  knees  slightly  bent.  Load  your  canoe 
for  upstream  work  so  that  the  bow  will  draw  less  water 
than  the  stern.  Place  your  load  in  the  canoe  so  that  she 
will  trim  properly  when  you  are  standing  in  the  space 
between  the  stern  seat  and  the  next  thwart  forward, 
with  your  left  leg  just  touching  the  after  side  of  the 
thwart.  This  will  help  you  maintain  your  balance,  and 
will  give  you  a  brace  to  push  against  in  strong  water. 
If  the  canoe  is  not  loaded,  stand  two-thirds  of  the  way 
back  from  the  bow  to  make  her  trim  right. 


With  Gun  &J>  Rod  in  Canada 


2nd.  Be  sure  that  your  canoe  is  headed  fairly  up- 
stream, so  that  the  current  will  not  swing  it  one  way  or 
the  other. 

3rd.  When  you  get  ready  to  shove,  do  so  deliberately, 
and  run  up  the  pole  with  your  hands  like  climbing  a 
rope  hand  over  hand.  Be  sure  that  the  pike  of  the  pole 
has  found  solid  bottom  where  it  will  not  slip  before  you 
shove. 

4th.  When  you  wish  to  swing  the  canoe's  head  to  the 
right,  shove  the  stern  to  the  left.  When  you  wish  to 
turn  her  head  to  the  left,  put  your  pole  to  bottom,  out 
as  far  sideways  as  you  can  conveniently  reach,  and  pull 
the  stern  toward  the  pole  to  the  right. 

5th.  If  you  find  that  your  pole  is  stuck  when  you  try 
to  withdraw  it  for  a  new  hold,  do  not  jerk  it  out,  but 
let  the  canoe  drift  back  gently  with  the  current  until 
you  can  release  it. 

6th.  When  you  recover  the  pole  for  the  next  hold, 
do  it  quickly,  but  do  not  try  to  reach  too  far  ahead. 

7th.  Do  not  hurry,  and  do  not  get  excited.  Remem- 
ber that  in  the  swiftest  water,  if  you  are  headed  squarely 
upstream,  your  canoe  will  hang  an  appreciable  length  of 
time  before  its  momentum  is  overcome  by  the  current, 
which  will  give  you  ample  time  to  pull  up  your  pole  for 
the  next  hold. 

8th.  Always  remember  after  each  hold  to  swing  your 
canoe  fairly  upstream  before  you  push  on  your  pole. 

9th.  In  going  down  rapids  load  your  canoe  bow- heavy; 
if  you  do  not  know  all  about  the  channel,  do  not  try 
to  use  a  paddle  to  steer  with — use  a  pole  and  hold  her 
back. 

loth.  Select  the  deep  channel  every  time  when 
headed  upstream  rather  than  the  shallow  or  crooked  one. 

nth.  Do  not  be  afraid  of  swift,  roaring  water.  You 
can  pole  a  canoe  against  a  five-  or  six-mile  current  with 

152 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

comparative   ease,   where   a   paddle  would   simply  get 
you  into  trouble. 

1 2th.  If  in  a  standing  position  and  your  foot  or  pole 
should  slip,  drop  quickly  to  your  knees,  and  if  you  cannot 
catch  a  new  hold  with  your  pike  and  keep  headed  properly 
upstream,  it  is  better  to  back  her  into  an  eddy  and  start 
again,  rather  than  to  run  wild  among  the  ledges. 


153 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

(Continued) 

II.— HOW  TO  OUTFIT  AND  HANDLE  YOUR 
CRAFT  WHEN  YOU  WANT  TO  FISH  THE 
RAPIDS 

IT  has  been  suggested  that  I  give  more  information 
about  using  the  paddle  in  swift  water.  This  sug- 
gestion is  somewhat  ambiguous,  owing  to  the  fact 
that  in  any  water  running  more  than  two  or  three 
miles  per  hour  a  paddle  is  really  impracticable,  unless 
there  is  absolutely  no  other  way  to  get  a  canoe  along. 
I  do  not  mean  by  this  that  a  quarter,  or  even  half  a  mile, 
of  comparatively  smooth  water,  with  perhaps  a  four- 
mile  current,  cannot  be  negotiated  by  a  couple  of  strong 
paddlers,  headed  upstream ;  but  at  that  they  would  have 
a  strenuous  job  ahead  of  them. 

Obviously  a  canoe's  headway  in  smooth  water  is 
limited  by  the  strength  and  skill  of  the  paddlers. 

The  limit  of  the  practical  working  speed  in  still  water 
for  a  canoe  with  two  men  is  only  about  three  or  four 
miles  per  hour;  consequently,  when  a  canoe  is  headed 
into  a  current  running  that  fast,  the  paddlers  have  got 
to  speed  up,  with  a  consequent  extra  drain  upon  their 
physical  resources. 

A  current  running  as  fast  as  six  or  seven  miles  an  hour 
can  be  negotiated  by  one  man  with  a  pole  and  loaded 
canoe  without  as  much  effort  to  the  operator  as  would 
be  demanded  in  paddling  against  a  four-mile  current 

154 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

accompanied  by  a  partner.  Consequently,  there  is 
not  much  to  be  said  about  using  a  paddle  in  swift  water 
when  going  upstream. 

In  going  downstream  one  should  not  run  broken  or 
rocky  rivers  with  a  paddle  unless  one  knows  the  channels 
and  river  below;  otherwise,  disaster  is  almost  certain. 
When  using  a  pike-pole  you  can  hold  your  canoe  back 
and  pick  out  the  safe,  easy  channels,  or  push  ashore  and 
portage  around  the  dangerous  falls.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  you  know  the  river  below  you  and  wish  to  run 
downstream,  or  literally  shoot  the  rapids  with  only  a 
paddle,  the  only  safe  way  to  do  so  is  to  paddle  your 
canoe  faster  than  the  current,  so  that  you  always  have 
steerage  way.  Shooting  rapids  with  a  paddle  is  ex- 
hilarating sport,  but  as  you  cannot  snub  a  canoe  easily 
in  a  swift  current,  it  behoves  one  to  know  the  channel 
and  keep  it. 

From  being  the  witness  of  many  accidents  in  white 
water,  I  am  fully  convinced  that  it  is  lack  of  proper 
equipment  as  well  as  lack  of  knowledge  of  simple  funda- 
mental principles  that  is  the  cause  of  a  large  percentage 
of  disasters.  In  other  words,  I  claim  that  equipment 
as  well  as  method  is  fundamental,  and  that  due  attention 
must  be  given  to  the  standardization  of  one  as  well  as 
of  the  other. 

Believing  that  fishing  is  the  most  common  excuse 
sportsmen  have  for  getting  out  into  swift  water,  and 
that  canoes  improperly  equipped  and  handled  for  fishing 
purposes  are  responsible  for  more  accidents  than  when 
used  in  any  other  branch  of  sport,  I  am  going  to  specialize 
a  little  in  this  article  on  this  particular  phase  of  the 
canoe  game.  I  shall  try  to  give  first,  in  as  condensed  a 
form  as  possible,  an  outline  of  equipment  that  through 
a  process  of  years  of  elimination  has  gradually  become 
standardized  with  experts  in  this  particular  line  of 

155 


With  Gun     ?  Rod  in  Canada 


work;  and  second,  to  tell,  by  pictures  and  text,  how 
such  equipment  should  be  used. 

The  equipment  I  would  select  for  stream  fishing 
would  be  about  as  follows:  A  sixteen-  or  seventeen-foot 
guides'  model  canvas-covered  canoe  with  open  gunwale, 
low  stern  and  bow,  flat  on  the  bottom,  and  carrying  her 
width  well  fore  and  aft.  The  canoe  should  have  no 
outside  keel,  as  the  latter  is  apt  to  catch  on  rocks  and  tip 
you  over.  The  seats  should  be  underslung,  beneath 
the  inside  of  the  rails  —  the  forward  seat  hanging  perhaps 
three  inches  beneath  the  gunwale.  Although  the  posi- 
tion of  seats  is  not  a  prime  requisite  in  one-man  canoe 
fishing,  owing  to  the  fact  that  you  do  all  your  work  from 
a  standing  or  kneeling  position  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe, 
it  is  just  as  easy  to  have  a  canoe  properly  rigged  for  all 
purposes  of  hunting  and  fishing,  as  it  is  to  select  one 
that  is  just  a  little  wrong.  The  canoe  should  have  a 
centre  thwart,  so  that  you  can  pick  it  up  and  carry  it 
on  your  shoulders  if  necessary,  and  the  two  other  thwarts 
just  fore  and  aft  of  the  seats,  so  that  your  paddles  will 
overreach  the  space  between  either  of  them  and  the 
centre  thwart  sufficiently  to  enable  you  to  use  them  as 
shoulder  rests  when  carrying  the  canoe  over  a  long 
portage. 

Attach  a  small  galvanized-iron  pulley-block  by  a  piece 
of  strong  copper  wire  to  the  ring  in  the  bow  of  the  canoe. 
Either  purchase  or  have  a  blacksmith  make  for  you  an 
anchor,  grappling-iron,  or  kellick,  with  five  prongs  made 
out  of  half-inch  steel,  with  a  twelve-inch  shank  and 
a  ring  in  both  ends.  Use  about  forty  feet  of  hemp 
clothes-line  or  window-sash  cord  for  an  anchor  rope. 
Tie  one  end  through  the  loose  ring  in  the  shank  of  the 
anchor,  using  two  wraps  through  the  ring  and  two  half- 
hitches.  Then  pass  the  other  end  through  the  pulley, 
carry  it  aft  and  over  and  around  the  after  thwart,  and 


o  z 


1 


W  <r. 

*   * 
.     C 


To  face  p.  156 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

then  tie  the  end  through  the  ring  at  the  hook-end  of 
the  anchor.  You  then  have  a  kellick  so  rigged  that  you 
can  lower  it  or  raise  it  from  your  kneeling  position  near 
the  stern  of  your  canoe,  and  in  case  the  anchor  gets 
caught  under  a  root  or  a  rock,  you  can  pull  yourself  up 
to  it  with  the  tail-rope  on  your  anchor,  and  by  the  same 
rope  pull  the  anchor  in  upside  down. 

If  you  cannot  easily  obtain  a  grab  or  grappling-hook 
for  an  anchor  or  kellick,  use  an  iron  ring  twelve  or  fourteen 
inches  in  diameter,  made  out  of  square  iron  and  weighing 
twelve  or  fifteen  pounds.  Such  a  ring  makes  a  very 
satisfactory  anchor  when  used  with  a  long  rope,  and 
never  necessitates  a  tail-rope.  I  have  never  known  one 
to  get  fast  among  the  rocks  or  roots.  When  a  ring  is 
not  available,  use  an  oblong  stone  weighing  fifteen  or 
twenty  pounds.  An  ordinary  slip-knot  will  generally 
hold  a  properly  shaped  boulder.  A  timber  hitch, 
rolling  hitch,  clove  hitch,  or  even  two  half-hitches  will 
suffice.  I  have  found  that  putting  a  stone  in  a  burlap 
bag  prevents  scratching  a  canoe. 

The  best  wrinkle  for  a  kellick  where  a  long  trip  is 
contemplated  with  many  portages,  and  where  saving  in 
weight  of  outfit  is  essential,  is  a  net  made  of  cord-line 
with  about  a  three-inch  mesh  and  two  feet  square. 
When  you  wish  to  fish  and  use  an  anchor,  pick  out  a 
smooth  boulder,  say  fifteen  pounds  in  weight,  place  it 
in  the  centre  of  the  net,  and  use  the  end  of  the  anchor 
rope  as  a  gathering  line,  threading  it  through  the  edges 
of  the  net.  You  then  have  a  net  bag  with  a  stone  in  it 
for  a  kellick.  When  you  are  through  fishing,  throw 
away  the  stone  and  put  the  net  in  your  pocket. 

For  a  pike-pole  use  straight-grained  spruce  anywhere 
from  twelve  to  sixteen  feet  long,  depending  on  whether 
you  pole  from  a  standing  or  kneeling  position  (the  latter 
requiring  a  shorter  pole),  or  a  piece  of  straight-grained 

157 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 

ash  even  a  little  less  in  diameter.  Have  the  pike  made  of 
tool  steel  and  only  about  three  inches  long,  forged  with 
a  cup-shaped  hollow  at  the  point.  This  cup-shaped 
point  should  not  be  over  half  an  inch  across,  and  in 
tempering  should  be  hardened  at  a  dark  straw  colour. 

The  pike  should  have  a  shoulder  or  collar  one  inch 
wide  where  it  rests  against  the  end  of  the  pole.  The 
part  of  the  pike  that  enters  the  pole  should  be  five  inches 
long,  and  tapered  square  like  an  old-fashioned  nail. 
The  edges  of  the  square  should  be  scored  with  a  chisel 
before  it  is  driven,  so  that  it  will  not  readily  pull  out. 

Two  rings  three-quarters  of  an  inch  wide  and  one- 
eighth  of  an  inch  thick  should  be  driven  over  the  end 
of  the  pole  before  the  pike  is  driven  into  its  place.  A 
hole  should  of  course  be  bored  in  the  end  of  the  pole 
for  receiving  the  burred  end  of  the  pike.  The  pole 
must  be  perfectly  smooth  and  free  from  splinters,  and 
as  straight  as  possible. 

For  paddles,  if  you  have  to  use  those  furnished  by  the 
canoe  manufacturers,  have  them  shod  with  steel.  The 
longitudinal  piece  is  of  tool  steel  split  so  that  it  goes 
up  each  side  of  the  paddle,  but  leaves  a  tempered,  chisel- 
shaped  point  of  about  three-quarters  of  an  inch  long 
at  the  point  of  the  blade.  The  strap  around  the  paddle 
is  made  of  soft  iron  about  one-sixteenth  of  an  inch  thick, 
and  both  the  steel  and  iron  are  riveted  right  through 
the  blade.  This  will  give  you  a  paddle  that  will  stand 
considerable  grief  among  the  rocks.  If  you  have  an 
opportunity  to  have  paddles  made  to  order,  specify 
ash  or  locust,  and  see  that  the  contour  of  the  handle 
is  carried  down  into  the  blade  in  the  form  of  a  "  bone," 
or  rib,  clear  to  the  tip.  This  will  give  you  a  strong 
paddle,  and  one  that  will  last  a  long  time  among  the 
rocks  without  any  iron  ;  it  also  has  the  advantage  of 
being  a  little  lighter  than  the  ironed  blade. 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

Have  the  upper  end  of  the  handle  so  fashioned  that 
it  will  have  a  flat  palm  about  two  inches  wide  and  eight 
inches  long,  extending  from  the  hand-hold  down  towards 
the  blade.  You  will  find  these  flattened  shanks  of  great 
assistance  when  carrying  a  canoe  over  a  long  portage, 
as  you  can  stick  the  blades  of  your  paddles  under  the 
after  thwart  of  your  canoe  and  the  other  ends  over  the 
centre  thwart,  and  use  them  for  shoulder  rests  while 
carrying  your  craft,  a  flat  shank  resting  on  each  shoulder. 

When  one  is  fishing  in  swift  water  from  a  canoe, 
there  are  a  good  many  different  implements  to  think 
of  and  handle — namely,  the  paddle,  the  pike-pole,  the 
kellick  or  anchor,  the  rod,  and  the  dip-net ;  consequently, 
it  is  best  to  have  the  various  tools  so  arranged  that  they 
are  always  conveniently  at  hand. 

Personally,  I  do  most  of  my  paddling  and  poling  on 
the  right-hand  side  of  the  canoe,  and  the  implements 
are  arranged  as  follows:  I  place  an  oil-coat  or  sweater 
in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe  to  kneel  on,  just  forward  of 
the  after  thwart;  the  pike-pole  is  shoved  under  the 
two  forward  thwarts  and  over  the  one  I  am  resting 
against,  with  the  point  toward  the  stern  and  on  my  left 
hand;  the  anchor  or  kellick  is  swung  outboard  and  hauled 
close  up  against  the  pulley  with  a  rolling  hitch  of  the 
rope  around  the  centre  thwart.  (It  is  important  to 
have  your  anchor  rope  so  fast  that  a  quick  twitch  of  the 
rope  will  let  the  anchor  run  to  bottom.) 

The  rod,  which  I  have  previously  assembled  and  made 
ready  for  fishing,  is  also  at  my  left  with  the  tip  overhang- 
ing the  stern  and  the  butt  resting  on  the  bottom  of  the 
canoe  and  about  under  the  centre  thwart;  the  dip-net 
or  gaff  is  lying  on  the  bottom  of  the  canoe  with  handle 
toward  me.  I  paddle  to  the  foot  of  the  first  run,  then 
lay  the  paddle  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe  beside  the  dip- 
net,  pull  the  pole  back  and  out  from  under  the  thwarts 

159 


With  Gun  £P  Rod  in  Canada 


with  my  left  hand,  pass  it  over  my  head  and  over  my  rod 
to  the  right-hand  side,  stand  up  and  pole  into  the  swift 
water. 

If  I  am  expecting  an  immediate  strike  in  the  first  run, 
I  have  my  line  trailing  behind  the  canoe  before  I  start 
to  use  the  pole.  In  the  latter  case,  I  do  not  stand  up, 
but  do  the  poling  from  a  kneeling  position.  In  case  of 
a  strike  on  the  trailing  flies,  which  is  no  uncommon 
occurrence  in  Nova  Scotia  waters,  I  grab  the  rod  with 
the  left  hand,  shove  the  pole  under  the  thwarts  on  the 
right-hand  side,  and  in  the  same  forward  motion  release 
my  anchor  with  a  twitch  of  the  rope. 

As  a  grappling-hook  will  not  as  a  rule  hold  on  a  rocky 
bottom  with  a  short  rope,  but  invariably  will  hold  with 
fifteen  or  twenty  feet  of  line,  I  let  it  pay  out  until  it 
comes  taut  against  the  thwart  to  which  it  is  tied.  Three 
or  four  seconds  suffices  for  the  above  operation.  Now 
for  the  fish. 

When  they  stop  biting  in  this  run,  I  rearrange  my 
gear,  pull  up  to  my  anchor,  fasten  it  by  a  quick  twist 
of  the  rope  around  the  thwart,  seize  my  pole  (which  is 
now  on  the  right-hand  side),  and  proceed  up  the  stream. 
If  you  use  a  creel,  keep  it  just  in  front  of  your  knees. 
If  you  are  not  using  a  creel,  kill  your  fish  and  put  them 
in  the  stern  of  the  canoe  behind  you.  This  will  prevent 
the  bottom  of  your  boat  from  getting  slimy  and  slippery 
in  case  you  wish  to  stand  up,  and  will  keep  them  from 
flopping  around  and  getting  tangled  up  in  your  fishing 
gear  or  dip-net. 

If  you  find  the  fish  are  biting  fast,  afteryou  are  anchored 
turn  round  carefully  in  the  canoe  and  face  downstream. 
Fish  will  invariably  use  the  current  to  assist  them  in 
their  fight  for  freedom,  and  this  means  that  most  of  the 
fishing  will  be  done  downstream  from  the  boat.  It  is 
much  less  tiresome  to  be  facing  the  fish  in  his  struggles 

1 60 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

than  to  be  half  twisted  around  while  both  fighting  and 
dipping  him. 

Any  fisherman  will,  as  a  rule,  desire  to  fish  "  down 
over  "  the  same  water  that  he  fished  "  up  over."  If  you 
do  this,  do  not  turn  your  canoe  around;  let  her  down 
over  the  rapids  stern  first,  but  turn  yourself  and  face 
downstream,  being  careful  to  keep  your  weight  nearer 
the  stern  than  the  bow.  In  this  position  it  is  perfectly 
safe  to  drop  the  anchor  at  any  point,  as  this  allows  the 
downstream  end  of  the  canoe  to  draw  more  water  than 
the  upstream. 

Many  a  fisherman  has  come  to  grief  through  turning 
his  canoe  or  boat  around,  and  having  the  anchor  end 
downstream,  when,  if  he  lets  his  anchor  go,  the  bow  is 
snubbed  so  suddenly  when  the  anchor  catches,  that  the 
craft  is  apt  to  tip  over;  or,  as  it  turns  in  the  swift  current, 
the  stern  might  be  driven  against  a  rock  and  smashed; 
or,  the  rock  and  the  anchor  between  them  might  hold 
the  craft  broadside  to  the  current,  in  which  position  it 
would  be  sure  to  fill. 

Always  remember  to  use  the  anchor  on  the  up- 
stream end  of  the  canoe,  either  going  up  or  coming 
down.  Also,  invariably  have  the  downstream  end 
of  the  canoe  drawing  more  water  than  the  upstream 
end. 

When  you  are  fishing  from  a  canoe  and  have  a  guide, 
if  you  will  remember  a  few  essential  principles,  you  can 
make  it  much  easier  for  the  guide,  and  more  comfortable 
and  much  safer  for  yourself.  I  have  seen  a  guide  allow 
his  employer  to  fish  all  day  from  a  canoe  in  the  most 
awkward  way  imaginable  (both  for  the  sportsman  and 
the  guide),  simply  because  the  latter  was  too  timid  to 
make  suggestions  as  to  where  his  employer  should  sit, 
or  how  or  where  he  should  fish.  Also,  many  "  sports " 
are  inclined  to  resent  suggestions  from  a  guide,  although 

161  L 


With  Gun      >  Rod  in  Canada 


such  suggestions  are  made  entirely  for  the  former's 
comfort  and  safety. 

Do  not  insist  upon  sitting  in  the  front  seat  of  the  canoe 
when  going  upstream.  It  is  preferable  to  sit  on  the 
bottom  with  your  back  to  the  forward  thwart  facing 
downstream.  A  coat  or  sweater  thrown  over  the  thwart 
makes  a  very  comfortable  seat  and  back.  You  can  then 
cast  out  to  either  side  without  hooking  your  flies  into 
the  guide's  features,  or,  worse  yet,  around  the  pike-pole, 
upon  which  your  safety  depends,  or,  you  can  troll  your 
flies  on  the  side  opposite  to  the  guide's  pole.  You  have 
a  better  chance  of  hooking  a  fish  from  a  side  cast,  and 
fighting  him  facing  downstream,  than  you  have  when 
casting  against  the  current.  In  the  latter  case,  if  you 
do  hook  a  fish,  you  have  either  got  to  twist  around  in 
your  seat  to  fight  him,  or  the  guide  has  to  turn  the  canoe 
around  in  the  swift  water  to  give  you  a  better  opportunity. 

In  the  first  case,  you  are  apt  to  upset  the  canoe.  In 
the  second  case,  the  guide  is  obliged  to  handle  the  canoe 
when  she  is  headed  downstream  but  trimmed  for  up- 
stream work,  which  is  both  dangerous  and  awkward. 
A  good  guide  under  the  latter  circumstances  will  usually 
run  his  canoe  into  an  eddy,  or  into  quiet  water  near  the 
shore  until  the  fight  is  over.  This  manoeuvre  stirs  up 
a  lot  of  water  and  spoils  your  chance  for  another  immedi- 
ate strike.  With  a  good  guide,  however,  it's  "safety 
first  "  and  trout  second. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  are  sitting  in  the  bottom 
and  facing  the  stern,  as  above  suggested,  you  would  be 
facing  the  fish,  you  would  not  run  the  risk  of  upsetting, 
and  the  guide  would  not  have  to  turn  the  canoe  around 
and  spoil  your  fishing,  but  could  simply  hold  the  canoe 
in  the  proper  position  with  the  pole,  or  let  go  his 
anchor. 

In  running  downstream  it  is  perfectly  proper  for  the 

162 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

sportsman  to  sit  in  the  front  seat.  In  this  case,  the 
guide  rigs  his  anchor  from  a  pulley  in  the  stern,  moves 
up  nearly  to  the  centre  of  the  canoe  so  that  she  will  be 
bow-heavy,  and  then  handles  his  craft  with  kellick  and 
pole  in  the  proper  way.  Personally,  I  prefer  to  let  my 
canoe  down  over  the  rapids  stern  first,  even  when  fishing 
with  a  companion.  The  only  objection  to  this  method 
is  that  in  manipulating  the  kellick  the  wet  rope  is  apt 
to  annoy  the  other  occupant  of  the  craft. 

When  going  downstream,  never  try  to  assist  your  guide 
by  attempting  to  shove  the  canoe's  bow  away  from  the 
rocks  or  logs,  unless  the  guide  expressly  tells  you  to  do 
so.  There  have  been  many  accidents  caused  by  sports- 
men being  over-anxious  to  assist  their  pilot  while  running 
the  rapids. 


163 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

(Continued) 

III.— WHAT  TO  DO  WHEN  THE  WIND 
CATCHES  YOU  ON  LAKES,  AND  HOW  TO 
RUN  THE  SURF 

NO  guide  or  sportsman  likes  to  be  confronted  by  a 
head  wind  and  a  rough  lake,  combined  with  the 
necessity  for  getting  across  to  a  comfortable 
camp,  or  perhaps  keeping  an  appointment  with  a  team 
at  a  certain  landing.  I  well  remember  Old  Joe  Patter- 
son's answer  some  years  ago  when  we  were  thus  embar- 
rassed. He  was  guide  for  me  on  a  moose-hunt  in  the 
Rossignol  district  in  Nova  Scotia.  We  had  captured 
our  moose  and  were  paddling  toward  camp.  Eight 
miles  of  lake  lay  ahead  of  us. 

As  we  turned  Sam's  Point  we  struck  a  heavy  sea  and 
a  half-gale  of  north-west  wind.  The  lake  was  a  seething 
mass  of  white  water.  We  landed  in  the  lee  of  the  point 
and  surveyed  the  prospect.  It  looked  bad. 

I  said:  "  Joe,  what  do  you  do  in  a  case  like  this  ?" 

"  We  don't,"  was  his  laconic  reply. 

Generally  speaking,  under  such  conditions,  the  way  to 
get  across  is  just  as  Joe  said — "  Don't !" 

However,  after  waiting  on  the  point  awhile  I  began 
to  get  restive,  and  decided  to  try  it.  I  had  a  sixteen- 
foot  basswood  canoe,  which  was  not  a  regular  hunting 
model — built  for  pleasure  rather  than  work — but  a  fine 
acting  boat  in  a  seaway.  She  had  open  gunwales  with 
a  rail  outside  like  a  chafing  batten,  one  and  a  half  inches 

164 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

wide.  Beside  my  one  hundred  and  eighty-five  pounds, 
she  carried  a  quarter  of  moose  meat,  a  tent  and  small 
roll  of  blankets. 

I  waited  for  a  lull  in  the  wind  and  paddled  out  around 
the  point,  then  headed  square  into  the  sea.  A  squall 
struck  me  and  actually  backed  me  up  against  my  own 
paddle.  I  stuck  it  out,  and  as  the  gale  passed,  managed 
to  make  considerable  headway.  The  seas  were  wicked 
and  the  wind  blew  the  tops  right  off  the  waves.  They 
drenched  me  with  spray,  but  that  little  boat  cut  through 
the  tops  of  the  seas  as  clean  as  a  knife.  The  outside  rail 
threw  off  the  "  green  "  water,  and  she  shipped  hardly 
any.  It  was  a  desperate  struggle  to  keep  her  head  fairly 
into  the  wind  and  sea.  I  made  for  a  little  island,  and 
after  half  an  hour's  fight,  shot  her  under  the  lee.  I  turned 
around  and  saw  the  other  canoe  coming  with  Joe  at  the 
business  end.  I  had  "  shamed "  him  into  it !  He 
was  paddling  for  his  very  life  and  probably  swearing  at 
every  stroke.  His  canoe  was  an  eighteen-foot  bark, 
a  fine  sea  boat  but  rough  on  the  bottom,  heavily  loaded 
and  hard  to  paddle.  She  lumbered  into  my  harbour  at 
last.  Joe  was  grinning  but  winded. 

After  a  rest  we  tried  for  the  next  island,  made  that, 
and  so  on,  until  we  reached  the  western  shore  of  the 
lake.  There  we  paddled  along  in  quiet  water  as  far  as 
Wildcat  Point.  We  carried  across  the  point,  had  another 
battle  with  the  wind  crossing  the  Kejimkujik  River, 
then  through  the  Narrows  and  over  Lowe's  Lake  to 
camp.  It  took  us  half  a  day,  and  we  had  probably 
paddled  twelve  miles  to  advance  eight.  Joe  said  it  was 
the  worst  wind  and  sea  that  he  had  ever  paddled  against. 
The  canoes  were  handled  correctly,  and  consequently 
carried  us  through. 

The  point  of  the  above  story  is  that  a  canoe  can  stand 
a  terrific  sea  if  managed  properly  (and  you  have  good 


With  Gun     ?  Rod  in  Canada 


luck),  but  it  is  not  a  comfortable  nor  safe  craft  for  really 
rough  water.  If  you  have  to  paddle  against  rough  water, 
get  your  load  well  aft,  carry  a  handy  bailing  dipper, 
two  paddles,  and,  unless  you  are  a  strong  swimmer, 
a  good  air-cushion  or  some  other  life-preserver.  If 
you  tip  over,  hang  on  to  the  canoe  as  long  as  possible. 
The  wind  will  eventually  blow  you  ashore.  The  best 
way  to  fight  a  heavy  sea  and  wind  with  a  loaded  canoe 
is  to  get  everything  ready  to  go,  wait  until  the  wind 
and  sea  die  down,  then  start  out. 

An  experienced  swimmer  and  canoeman  can  perform 
all  sorts  of  wonderful  feats  with  a  canoe.  For  instance, 
he  can  tip  over  and  swamp  his  craft,  and  then  by  rocking 
her  sideways  and  pushing  her  quickly  away  from  him 
each  time  her  near  side  comes  down,  he  can  splash  or 
rock  the  water  out  of  her.  This  can  be  done  only  with 
a  canoe  that  has  no  inside  rail  and  no  "  tumble  home  " 
or  "  curve  in,"  to  her  top  sides.  Either  the  rail  or  the 
"  tumble  home  "  will  have  a  tendency  to  throw  the 
water  back  in  the  boat  instead  of  over  the  side. 

If  you  intend  to  cruise  in  deep  water,  it  is  best  to 
carry  a  bailer  tied  to  a  thwart;  then  if  you  tip  over  you 
can  rock  out  some  of  the  water  and  bail  out  the  rest. 
After  your  canoe  is  unwatered  you  can  (if  you  know  how) 
climb  in  over  one  end.  It  takes  practice,  but  can  be 
done. 

If  you  have  a  loaded  canoe  and  wish  to  save  the  stuff, 
and  find  that  you  are  shipping  so  much  water  that  cap- 
sizing or  swamping  is  imminent,  it  is  better  to  slip  over 
the  end,  if  you  have  time,  and  into  the  water.  Then, 
untie  your  bailer  and  hold  the  canoe  by  the  heavy  end 
with  one  hand  while  you  bail  with  the  other.  If  you 
think  that  the  load  is  so  heavy  that  it  will  sink  the  canoe 
as  it  gets  water-soaked,  and  you  are  a  long  way  from 
shore  —  a  matter  of  life  or  death  —  throw  your  load 

166 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

overboard  or  turn  the  canoe  upside  down  and  dump  the 
ballast,  then  use  the  canoe  to  keep  you  afloat. 

If  it  is  not  too  rough,  splash  or  bail  her  out  and  climb 
in.  On  one  occasion  I  used  a  fish-line  and  an  empty 
flask,  and  buoyed  my  jettisoned  cargo,  before  abandoning 
it  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  big  lake.  Then  I  got  my 
canoe  clear  of  water,  and  climbed  safely  into  her  and 
made  land.  It  calmed  the  following  day,  and  I  found 
my  buoy.  With  a  grappling-hook  I  recovered  the  gear, 
including  a  seventy-five-dollar  gun. 

If  you  get  caught  in  a  blow  and  have  to  paddle  squarely 
against  wind  and  waves,  load  so  that  the  bow  is  well  out 
of  water.  With  a  fair  following  sea,  load  with  even 
keel.  Do  not,  under  any  condition,  tackle  rough  water 
and  try  to  paddle  in  the  trough.  When  you  are  actually 
in  the  trough  and  between  two  waves,  there  is  safety 
for  an  instant  only.  The  crest  of  the  next  sea  will 
probably  come  partly  aboard.  A  continued  repetition 
of  this  will  soon  make  your  canoe  unmanageable.  Then 
as  the  crests  underrun  you,  you  will  lose  your  balance 
and  have  a  swim. 

Before  closing  this  advice  on  canoeing  in  rough  water, 
I  wish  to  emphasize  Old  Joe's  advice — if  possible, 
"  Don't !" 

How  TO  RUN  THE  SURF. 

Some  years  ago,  and  after  I  had  arrived  at  the  pro- 
fessional stage  in  my  career  as  a  canoe  handler,  I  had  an 
instructive  experience  landing  a  canoe  through  the  surf 
on  the  Atlantic  coast.  Many  times  I  had  landed  with 
a  dory  or  surf-boat  at  various  points,  and  believed  it 
could  be  done  with  a  canoe.  We  were  taking  a  summer 
cruise  in  a  big  motor-boat,  and  had  sailed  down  from 
Bridgewater,  Nova  Scotia.  We  rounded  the  La  Have 


With  Gun  ft?  Rod  in  Canada 


Islands  into  Green  Bay,  and  as  the  sea  was  calm,  anchored 
just  off  Crescent  Beach  with  the  intention  of  getting 
ashore  in  an  eighteen-foot  canoe. 

The  Daphne  carried  two  dinghies,  but  as  they  hung 
on  davits  and  were  covered  and  blocked  up,  it  was  quite 
a  job  to  put  them  overside.  After  landing  all  but  one 
lady  at  a  fish  wharf  in  a  little  cove,  I  suggested  to  her 
that  we  land  directly  on  the  beach  and  so  avoid  quite  a 
walk  around.  She  was  game,  and  we  paddled  into  the 
surf.  We  caught  a  wave  just  right,  and  it  shot  us  toward 
the  beach  in  grand  style.  It  was  like  riding  a  surf-board. 
We  were  going  about  fifteen  miles  an  hour,  and  it  was 
most  exhilarating,  when  suddenly  the  canoe  began  to 
shoot  towards  the  right.  I  tried  desperately  to  paddle 
her  around.  The  bow  pointed  down,  dug  into  the 
sand,  and  over  we  went — lady,  dignity,  and  all ! 

The  wave  receded  and  left  us  sitting  on  the  beach, 
high  and  wet.  The  crowd  laughed — the  lady  didn't. 
Besides  spoiling  the  lady's  clothes,  disposition,  and 
day,  I  incidentally  ruined  my  watch  and  social  stand- 
ing with  the  lady.  It  was  deplorable  but  instructive. 
The  wave  that  did  the  trick  was  not  over  two  feet 
high. 

The  whole  trouble  was  that  I  should  have  had  the 
canoe  loaded  heavier  in  the  bow  than  in  the  stern.  I 
spent  the  next  two  hours  practising  with  and  without  a 
passenger.  When  properly  trimmed  with  the  light 
stern  toward  the  sea,  it  was  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  to  keep  her  straight  and  make  a  safe  landing. 
Also  it  was  great  sport  to  ride  the  crests,  surf-board 
fashion.  I  explained  all  this  to  the  lady,  but  she 
scorned,  scouted,  and  flouted  the  idea — as  well  as  the 
perpetrator. 

The  photos  showing  the  canoe  in  a  small  surf  illustrate 
the  principles  involved.  When  going  out  have  the  bow 

168 


f.  tf. 
w 

H    J 

"*  i 


ut 

g« 


To  face  p. 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 


light,  and  so  time  your  seaward  progress  that  you  will 
catch  the  first  wave  just  after  it  breaks;  the  second  wave 
just  before  it  breaks;  and  so  on.  It  is  much  easier  to  go 
out  safely  than  to  come  in  dry,  unless  you  remember 
always  to  have  the  seaward  end  of  your  canoe  drawing 
less  water  than  the  other  end. 

When  going  shoreward,  kneel  forward  of  the  centre 
thwart  and  paddle  toward  the  shore,  watching  for  a 
following  wave.  If  you  can  get  the  canoe  moving  fast 
enough,  the  sea  will  catch  you  with  the  bow  of  your 
canoe  pointing  slightly  down,  and  will  carry  you  in  this 
position  on  its  crest  until  it  breaks  and  shoots  you 
smoothly  upon  the  sand.  It  takes  but  little  steering, 
as  the  water  beneath  you  has  a  firm  grip  on  the  deep 
forward  end  of  the  boat,  and  as  it  is  going  straight  for  the 
beach,  it  will  carry  you  straight  with  it. 

This  is  logical  to  the  average  sailor,  as  it  is  common 
practice,  when  landing  a  dinghy  or  other  hand-propelled 
craft  through  the  surf,  to  back  her  in.  The  stern  draws 
more  water  than  the  bow,  and  the  bow  has  a  chance  to 
rise  to  the  breaking  surf  and  will  not  ship  any  water. 
In  going  out,  the  bow  is  still  towards  the  waves  and  the 
boat  is  easily  steered,  as  the  deep  stern  is  still  gripped  by 
the  inrushing  water,  which  helps  to  hold  the  boat  at 
right  angles  to  the  surf-line. 

Although  it  is  remarkable  what  a  heavy  surf  you  can 
negotiate  with  a  canoe,  it  is  really  no  place  for  this  type 
of  craft,  but  the  history  of  my  experiences  may  be  help- 
ful to  those  who  like  to  play  in  the  waves.  As  a  sport 
it  quite  rivals  the  Hawaiian  surf-board.  Incidentally, 
it  would  have  saved  the  writer  embarrassment,  money, 
and  a  friend  if  he  had  known  how,  before  attempting  to 
take  a  lady  passenger  ashore  through  the  surf. 


169 


With  Gun  £?  Rod  in  Canada 


TOWING  CANOES. 

In  the  two  preceding  articles  I  took  up  canoe  handling 
in  swift  water  with  a  pole,  paddle,  and  kellick.  They 
presuppose  the  reader's  ability  to  handle  a  canoe  with  a 
paddle  in  quiet  water.  Most  out-of-door  young  people 
of  to-day  can  paddle,  especially  if  they  live  in  the  eastern 
part  of  North  America.  The  limited  amount  of  canoe 
lore  accumulated  in  vacation  experiences  at  summer 
resorts,  while  valuable,  is  usually  just  enough  to  get  an 
amateur  into  difficulties  when  he  or  she  is  confronted 
by  situations  that  come  up  when  using  a  canoe  for  hunt- 
ing, camping,  or  fishing  in  the  wilds. 

Unprecedented  dilemmas  confront  even  the  most  prac- 
tised canoeist.  I  had  a  personal  experience  along  that 
line  some  years  ago.  I  had  been  using  a  canoe  since 
boyhood.  I  had  learned  how  to  handle  a  canoe  in  swift 
water  with  a  pole,  and  had  been  up  against  many  con- 
ditions not  encountered  by  the  amateur.  I  made  many 
mistakes,  but  had  learned  how  to  meet  almost  every 
conceivable  situation  that  might  arise. 

At  this  period  I  bought  a  motor-boat,  to  be  used 
principally  for  towing  canoes  for  hunting  and  fishing 
parties  around  Lake  Rossignol  and  connecting  lakes  in 
Nova  Scotia.  A  day  or  two  after  the  new  motor-boat 
was  in  commission  I  was  called  upon  to  tow  three  loaded 
canoes  from  my  camp  at  Lowe's  Landing,  on  Lake 
Rossignol,  to  the  Shelburne  River — a  distance  of  six 
miles  across  the  end  of  the  lake.  I  found  I  still  had 
something  to  learn. 

When  the  motor-boat  was  ready  to  start,  the  three 
canoes  were  loaded  each'  with  its  own  equipment  for 
going  up  the  Shelburne  River.  I  tied  the  painter  of 
one  of  the  canoes  to  the  towing  cleat  on  the  stern  of  the 
motor-boat,  the  other  end  of  the  painter  being  through 

170 


I.  —  HANDLING     A    CANOE     IN     SURF    IS    A    MATTKR     OF    TIMING    WAVES.       HERE 
CANOE    WAS    SHOVED    INTO    THE    BREAKING    WAVE    TOO    SOON. 


2.— JUMPING    IN    JUST    AFTER    WAVE    HAS    BROKEN. 


3. — THE  CORRECT  PLACE  FOR 
TOWING  RING  IS  AS  NEAR  WATER- 
LINE  AS  POSSIBLE. 


4.— WHEN  CANOE  IS  NOT  EQUIPPED 
WITH  TOWING  RING,  RIG  A  BRIDLE 
AS  SHOWN. 


To  face  p.  170. 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

the  usual  ring  in  the  bow  of  the  canoe.  There  being  a 
similar  ring  in  the  stern,  I  tied  the  painter  of  the  second 
canoe  through  that,  and  in  turn  tied  the  third  canoe  to 
the  stern  ring  of  the  second.  This  strung  out  the  three 
canoes  tandem  fashion,  with  about  fifteen  feet  of  rope 
between  them. 

The  guides  elected  to  ride  in  the  motor-boat.  As  I 
started  from  the  dock,  the  water  was  smooth  and  the 
canoes  were  pulled  very  nicely.  After  passing  out  of 
the  Narrows  and  into  the  big  lake,  we  encountered  a 
heavy  wind  and  sea,  which  we  had  to  take  broadside 
while  following  the  channel,  before  squaring  away  for 
Shelburne  River. 

The  canoes  started  to  pitch  and  yaw  around  in  an 
alarming  manner.  The  second  started  off  on  a  course 
all  her  own,  thus  pulling  the  stern  of  the  first  canoe  off 
sideways  and  out  of  line  with  the  towing  strain.  The 
second  canoe's  bow  was  drawn  under  water,  and  she 
tipped  over.  This  put  an  impossible  sideways  pull  on 
the  first  canoe,  and  she  swamped.  Before  I  could  stop 
the  motor-boat,  the  third  canoe,  which  had  been  whipped 
around  like  the  tail  of  a  kite,  took  in  so  much  water  that 
she  capsized.  My  guests  estimated  that  one  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars'  worth  of  fishing  tackle  was  lost  in  the 
lake.  Most  of  the  camp  gear  had  been  tied  in  by  the 
guides,  otherwise  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  recover. 

Right  at  this  point  I  decided  that  it  was  a  mistake  to 
leave  valuables  in  a  canoe  when  it  was  being  towed  by  a 
motor-boat,  unless  the  owner  would  consent  to  remain  in 
the  canoe  and  help  handle  her  in  rough  water,  or  while 
leaving  or  making  a  landing.  After  trying  several 
experiments  in  towing  empty  canoes,  I  found  that  they 
could  be  towed  with  comparative  success  if  partially 
loaded  in  the  stern  when  using  the  usual  rings  found  in 
the  bow  and  stern  of  every  canoe,  as  towing  bits. 

171 


With  Gun     P  Rod  in  Canada 


While  the  canoe  next  to  the  motor-boat  would  tow 
fairly  well,  owing  to  the  stern  of  the  motor-boat  being 
usually  higher  than  the  bow  of  the  canoe,  and  thus  pulling 
the  bow  up  out  of  water,  the  second  canoe,  tied  to  the 
stern  of  the  first  one,  had  a  tendency  to  be  pulled  bow 
down  instead  of  up,  which  caused  trouble  if  there  was 
any  wind  or  sea. 

The  best  way  to  equip  a  canoe  for  towing  is  to  have 
a  ring  fastened  in  either  end  of  your  canoe  near  the  bottom 
of  the  stem,  or  stern  post.  The  design  of  the  stem  and 
stern  of  a  canoe  being  identical,  it  does  not  make  any 
difference  which  way  it  is  towed.  The  ring  as  described 
is  really  better  placed  in  the  bottom  of  the  stern  post 
than  near  the  bottom  of  the  stem,  so  when  you  are  using 
your  canoe  for  other  purposes  than  towing,  the  ring  will 
not  catch  in  the  rocks  or  weeds  when  making  a  landing. 

A  towing  ring  so  attached  permits  the  canoe  to  be  towed 
with  the  pull  all  from  under  her  bow,  which  does  not 
affect  her  stability  and  enables  her  to  be  towed  loaded 
or  light,  without  danger  of  capsizing  either  in  a  beam 
sea,  following  sea,  quartering  sea,  or  straight  in  the  eye 
of  the  wind. 

Where  more  than  one  canoe  is  to  be  towed,  fasten  the 
painter  of  the  second  through  the  ordinary  ring  in  the 
stern  of  the  first.  This  pulls  down  on  the  stern  of  the 
first  and  up  on  the  bow  of  the  second.  Fasten  the 
painter  of  the  third  through  the  regular  stern  ring  of 
the  second;  this,  in  turn,  pulls  down  the  stern  of  the 
second  and  pulls  up  the  bow  of  the  third,  etc.  I  am 
taking  it  for  granted  that  all  the  canoes  are  rigged  with  a 
special  towing  ring  attached  as  advised. 

When  a  canoe  is  not  rigged  with  the  properly  placed 
towing  ring  and  is  to  be  towed,  take  a  spare  painter  and 
make  a  bridle  or  yoke.  Tie  one  end  of  the  painter  to 
either  end  of  the  forward  thwart,  pass  it  outside  and 

172 


Canoeing  in  Swift  Water 

around  the  bow,  draw  it  tight  and  fasten  the  end  to  the 
other  end  of  the  forward  thwart.  Then  you  slip  the 
rope  down  and  tie  a  loop  in  it  exactly  beneath  the  bow. 

Tie  your  tow-rope  through  this  loop,  and  you  get  the 
right  effect  when  towing.  The  loop  is  under  the  bow 
and  in  line  with  the  keel.  The  pull  is  below  the  centre 
of  gravity,  consequently  up  on  the  bow.  The  problem 
in  towing  is  to  keep  the  bow  of  the  canoe  out  of  the  water. 

It  is  difficult  to  describe  the  behaviour  of  a  canoe  when 
being  towed  by  a  painter  made  fast  away  above  the  centre 
of  gravity,  especially  in  a  following  sea,  or  beam  sea. 
Guides  generally  seem  to  have  an  antipathy  for  sitting 
in  a  canoe  when  being  towed  behind  a  motor-boat. 
Probably  they  have  seen  so  many  accidents  and  tipovers 
from  improper  towing  rigs  that  they  think  it  more  or 
less  dangerous.  It  really  is  not,  but  quite  safe,  even  in 
a  heavy  sea,  providing  the  guide  knows  how  to  handle 
his  craft  and  carries  a  bailer  in  case  he  ships  water  from 
a  wind  lop. 

I  do  not  know  of  a  sensation  more  pleasing  than  that 
of  quietly  slipping  along  behind  a  motor-boat  in  a  canoe. 
There  is  no  vibration  or  noise,  and  you  glide  along  at  an 
apparently  impossible  speed  without  effort  or  even  con- 
sciousness of  the  propelling  agent. 

When  towing  two  or  more  canoes  or  boats,  I  make  a 
practice  of  placing  a  guide  with  a  paddle  in  the  stern 
of  the  last  boat.  He  can  help  a  great  deal  when  turning 
or  making  a  landing;  or,  in  case  the  engine  balks,  he  can 
keep  the  canoes  straightened  out  and  sufficiently  in  line 
so  that  they  are  not  jerked  about  when  the  motor  starts. 

Before  closing,  I  may  say  that  I  always  anticipate 
trouble  with  a  passenger  when  he  (or  she)  steps  into  a 
canoe  and  makes  any  of  the  following  mistakes: 

Wears  hobnailed  or  high- heeled  boots ;  steps  in  roughly 
or  carelessly  on  one  side  or  the  other;  does  not  wait  for 

J73 


With  Gun  &?  Rod  in  Canada 


the  guide  to  have  the  canoe  resting  in  water  instead 
of  on  the  rocks;  jumps  in,  or  loses  his  balance  and  grabs 
one  rail  with  both  hands;  puts  one  foot  in  while  he 
pushes  the  canoe  away  from  him  with  the  other;  sits  on 
one  side;  starts  flopping  around;  tries  to  stand  up  or  turn 
around;  tells  the  guide  that  he  is  not  "  scared  "  of  a  canoe. 

These  signs  mean  trouble.  It  will  require  extreme 
care  to- keep  him  dry.  Such  a  person  either  has  no 
knowledge  of,  nor  love  nor  respect  for,  a  canoe. 

I  have  for  many  years  taught  people  to  use  a  paddle 
to  assist  them  in  and  out  of  a  canoe.  If  you  stick  the 
paddle  in  the  bottom,  on  the  off  side,  it  will  hold  the  boat 
against  the  bank  or  landing;  will  keep  it  from  moving 
away  from  you  when  stepping  in;  and  will  help  you  keep 
your  balance  while  kneeling  or  getting  seated.  The 
same  rule  applies  when  stepping  out. 

The  canoe  is  coming  to  be  the  most  universally  used 
(and  misused  and  misunderstood)  craft  in  North  America. 
It  gives  more  people  pleasure  than  all  other  craft  com- 
bined. Without  it  the  great  North  Land  of  Canada 
would  not  yet  have  been  explored,  or  opened  up  for 
mining,  lumbering,  hunting,  or  fishing.  It  is  used  in  the 
Arctic  by  the  Eskimo;  in  the  tropics  by  the  Negro;  and 
in  the  temperate  zones  by  Everybody.  The  canoe  is 
strong  enough  for  work,  handsome  enough  for  play,  large 
enough  to  carry  a  load,  and  light  enough  to  be  carried. 

They  are  great  little  boats,  but  temperamental. 
Respect  them  ! 


'74 


White  Moose 

MOSSY    BOYLE    was    essentially    a    gentleman. 
He  was  soft-spoken,  respectful  to  his  equals  (he 
called  no  man  his  better),  chivalrous  to  ladies, 
and  paid  his  bills. 

He  was  also  a  scholar ;  not  that  his  book-lore  was  great, 
but  he  was  learned  in  the  ways  of  the  woods  and  the 
animals  therein,  and  could  furnish  much  material  for 
books  to  be  written  about.  Why  he  was  called  "  Mossy  " 
it  is  hard  to  guess,  since  he  was  neither  green  nor  soft. 
If  in  addition  to  being  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar  he  was 
also  a  base  prevaricator,  then  the  existence  of  an  albino 
moose  in  the  far  northern  corner  of  the  great  Lake 
Rossignol  watershed  is  a  myth.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
Mossy's  stories  are  as  honest  as  his  general  deportment 
in  life  seems  to  be,  a  great  white  moose  is  roaming  in  the 
barren  land  adjacent  to  the  head- waters  of  the  stream 
known  as  the  Shelburne  River.  This  stream  wanders 
troutfully  through  a  land  of  many  lakes,  wooded  islands 
and  ledges,  to  empty  itself  at  last  in  a  lauwine  of  foam 
in  the  south-west  corner  of  Lake  Rossignol,  Nova  Scotia. 
It  winds  through  a  wild  hilly  country  interspersed  with 
thickly  wooded  swamps  and  dry  barrens,  and  furnishes 
a  secluded  home  and  succulent  fodder  for  the  largest 
known  member  of  the  deer  family — Alces  macblis,  or 
moose.  Upon  showing  Mossy  the  Latin  name  for  moose, 
he  said  he  supposed  it  meant  "  matchless  Aleck,"  and  that 
he  "  Shure  was  all  that,  and  '  For  a'  that  and  a'  that,  a 
moose's  a  moose  [forjV  that !' '  Which  is  about  as 

175 


With  Gun  £#  Rod  in  Canada 


accurately  as  one  could  expect  an  Irishman  to  quote  a 
Scotchman  ! 

The  first  intimation  I  had  that  there  was  a  white 
moose  was  one  night  in  Ma-tee-o's  wigwam,  when  the 
old  Micmac  mentioned  to  Mossy  that  once  he  had  caught 
a  black-and-white  spotted  "  meskek  nabesk  "  (large  male 
bear).  I  laughed  at  the  idea,  but  to  my  surprise  Mossy 
took  it  quite  seriously.  To  prove  this  story  to  me, 
Ma-tee-o  produced  the  skin  of  a  very  large  bear's  hind- 
foot  with  the  claws  still  attached,  and  two  spots  of  white 
fur,  each  about  the  size  of  a  half-dollar,  upon  the 
instep. 

It  seems  that  this  bear,  according  to  the  Indian,  had 
left  his  hind-foot  in  a  trap,  and  Ma-tee-o  had  skinned  it 
and  tanned  the  ragged  trophy.  Whether  he  kept  it  to 
prove  the  existence  of  a  spotted  bear,  or  as  a  good-luck 
token,  I  was  unable  to  fathom.  I  have  always  taken  it 
as  the  latter,  since  it  led  immediately  to  the  discussion 
of  a  gigantic  albino  moose,  the  existence  of  which 
Ma-tee-o  seemed  to  stoically  accept  as  a  matter  of 
course,  while  Mossy  claimed  to  have  hunted  and  actually 
fired  at  it. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  it,  Ma-tee-o  ?"  I  awaited  his 
answer  with  great  interest. 

"  T'ree,  four  time."  Ma-tee-o  shrugged  his  shoulders 
nonchalantly. 

"  Where  ?"  I  quizzed. 

"  Little  Red  Lake  Bog — Granite  Falls — Dunraven 
Bog.  Last  summer,  Little  Tobiatic  Lake,"  Ma-tee-o 
answered,  positively. 

"  Did  you  shoot  at  him,  Ma-tee-o  ?" 

"  What's  the  use  ?"  He  seemed  surprised  at  my 
question. 

"  Weren't  the  horns  big  enough  ?  What  was  the 
matter  ?" 

176 


White  Moose 

"  Sure.  Big  spread — so  "  (he  stretched  his  arms  as 
far  apart  as  he  could  reach).  "  All  white,  like  ice 
in  sunshine.  Hide,  white  like  snow.  Hoofs,  white. 
Muffle,  black.  Eyes,  red  like  mad  dog.  If  he  leave  me 
be,  I  leave  him  be.  Kespeadooksit "  (The  story  is 
ended). 

Mossy  had  a  few  words  with  the  old  fellow  in  the 
Micmac  language,  and  then,  turning  to  me,  explained 
that  Ma-tee-o  did  not  believe  any  gun  had  yet  been 
made  that  was  either  accurate  or  powerful  enough  to 
kill  the  big  white  moose.  He  ended  by  saying  that  he 
half  believed  with  the  Micmac  that  there  was  something 
both  bullet-proof  and  supernatural  about  the  mysterious 
animal.  As  I  pressed  him  for  more  details  he  went  on 
as  follows: 

"  I  first  saw  it  three  years  ago  when  I  was  spotting  out 
a  piece  of  hemlock  land  for  the  Millers  way  up  the  Shel- 
burne  River.  It  was  in  December  and  good  snow- 
shoeing.  The  beast  must  have  seen  me  before  I  saw  it. 
Being  pure  white  with  the  exception  of  a  black  muffle, 
I  did  not  notice  it  until  it  started  to  trot  away.  It  had 
a  big  spread  of  horns,  and  they  were  well  matched  as 
near  as  I  could  judge.  Just  as  I  threw  up  my  rifle  and 
fired,  my  snow-shoe  caught  under  a  bush  and  I  fell.  I 
picked  myself  up,  and  stepping  into  its  trail,  followed 
along  several  rods.  Then  I  found  this." 

Mossy  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  prong  from  a  moose's 
horn  about  three  inches  long.  It  had  evidently  been 
cut  off  by  a  bullet.  It  was  as  white  and  shiny  as  ivory. 
I  examined  and  handed  it  back  to  him  with  a  knowing 
and  meaning  leer,  which,  however,  he  did  not  deign  to 
notice. 

He  resumed: 

"  As  the  white  moose  was  travelling  too  fast  and 
probably  too  far  for  me  to  follow  that  day,  I  finished 

177  M 


With  Gun  &>  Rod  in  Canada 

cruising  the  land,  stuck  up  my  little  tent  down  by  the 
river,  and  put  in  for  the  night.  I  was  anxious  to  get  that 
moose,  since  I  figured  that  I  could  sell  its  horns,  hide, 
and  head  for  enough  money  to  pay  for  the  risk  of  killing 
out  of  season.  I  felt  pretty  certain  that  it  was  yarded 
up  for  the  winter  in  the  vicinity  of  the  sidehill  where  I 
had  started  it,  and  that  if  I  waited  for  a  soft,  deep  snow 
with  just  enough  crust  to  make  good  snow-shoeing,  I'd 
have  a  good  chance  of  getting  it.  The  next  day  I  went 
home  to  Caledonia. 

"  The  week  before  Christmas  we  had  a  heavy  snow; 
then  it  rained:  then  froze.  On  the  evening  of  the 
twenty-first  of  December  I  drove  out  to  Lowe's  Landing 
with  my  snow-shoes,  rifle,  and  grub  for  three  or  four 
days.  The  boy  took  the  team  back.  The  next  morning 
I  struck  off  over  the  ice  for  Shelburne  River.  All  the  still 
waters  were  frozen,  and  the  snow-shoeing  in  the  woods 
was  just  right  to  make  easy  going.  Late  in  the  afternoon 
I  was  on  the  ground  where  I  had  seen  the  big  moose. 
Inside  of  half  an  hour  I  found  his  tracks;  in  another 
twenty  minutes  I  saw  him  browsing  with  three  cows  and 
a  small  bull  on  the  edge  of  a  swamp.  The  setting  sun 
made  him  shine  as  if  he  were  made  of  ice  and  snow 
instead  of  horn  and  fur.  A  bunch  of  birches  was  between 
us,  and  in  order  to  get  a  good  shot  I  tried  to  move  to  the 
left.  He  saw  me  and  started  to  trot  away.  In  my 
anxiety  to  get  a  clean  shot,  I  ran  out  into  the  open,  and 
one  of  the  lashings  on  my  snow-shoe  gave  way  and 
threw  me.  When  I  got  up  the  moose  was  gone.  I 
was  disappointed  but  not  discouraged,  so  walked 
down  to  the  brook  and  made  camp  for  the  night. 
The  next  day  I  hunted  again,  and  got  one  long  shot 
at  the  glittering  brute — about  five  hundred  yards."  He 
paused. 

"  Did  you  hit  it  ?"  I  asked,  impatiently  excited. 

178 


White  Moose 

Mossy  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  a  greasy- 
looking  fold  of  dirty  brown  paper,  which  he  carefully 
opened  and  silently  handed  to  me.  Inside  was  a  little 
tuft  of  long,  stiff,  white  hairs  attached  to  a  particle  of 
dry  skin.  They  were  undoubtedly  moose  hairs.  I 
handed  them  back  with  a  questioning  "  Well  ?" 

"  The  moose  ran  as  I  fired,  but  he  disappeared  so 
quickly  that  I  couldn't  get  in  a  second  shot.  Figuring 
I  had  hit  it,  I  went  over  to  the  spot  where  it  had  been 
standing.  A  few  drops  of  blood  and  that  tuft  of  hair 
were  all  I  found.  His  huge  tracks  were  about  fifteen 
feet  apart.  For  a  big  moose  he  certainly  was  mighty 
catty.  I  hunted  him  till  my  grub  gave  out  and  then 
took  back  for  home." 

"  When  did  you  see  him  last,  Mossy  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Remember  that  day  last  fall  when  you  called 
that  bull  right  up  to  your  cabin  at  Lowe's  Landing 
and  shot  him  while  in  the  water  in  front  of  the  boat- 
house  ?" 

"  Yes,  what  of  it  ?"  I  returned. 

"  Well,  me  and  Jim  had  called  up  the  big  ghost  that 
very  morning,  right  out  to  the  edge  of  a  little  bog  just 
above  Kempton's  Falls,  on  the  Shelburne  River.  I  must 
have  called  an  hour  before  it  spoke.  Then  it  showed 
itself  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  for  about  one  second, 
when  it  went  behind  another  clump  of  trees.  A  cart- 
ridge jammed  in  my  rifle,  and  I  couldn't  get  it  either  in 
nor  out,  and  so  missed  my  chance.  Jim  said  he  was  so 
surprised  at  seeing  a  snow-white  bull  that  he  forgot  all 
about  aiming  his  gun  or  pulling  the  trigger.  So  it  got 
away  again." 

I  glanced  at  Ma-tee-o  to  see  what  effect  Mossy's  story 
might  have  upon  him. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Ma-tee-o  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No  bullet  ketch  'im,"  he  asserted,  laconically. 

179 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada  v 

I  turned  to  Mossy. 

"  Boyle,  I'll  give  you  five  hundred  dollars  if  you  will 
land  the  head,  hide,  and  horns  of  that  white  moose  right 
here  at  my  canoe  landing." 

"  You  heard  what  Ma-tee-o  said,"  he  quietly  replied. 


180 


Saving  Moose  Meat 

IT  is  the  ambition  of  most  habitual  amateur  sportsmen 
some  day  to  be  able  to  go  into  the  woods  alone  with 
their  own  canoe  and  outfit,  and  successfully  hunt  and 
kill  a  big  moose,  and  get  it  out  to  some  point  where  an 
automobile  or  wagon  can  take  it  to  railroad  transporta- 
tion. Many  amateurs  that  can  shoot  accurately  and 
have  the  nerve  to  face  and  kill  big  game  would  be  practi- 
cally helpless  if  they  had  to  disembowel,  skin,  cut  up, 
and  carry  a  moose  to  their  canoe.  Even  though  a  hunter 
is  not  physically  strong  enough  to  actually  carry  quartered 
moose  meat  out  of  the  woods,  he  can  still  prepare  the  meat 
so  that  it  can  be  safely  hung  and  left  while  he  goes  out 
to  get  help.  Outside  an  occasional  black  bear,  there 
are  no  animals  in  the  Nova  Scotia  woods  that  will  destroy 
meat  if  it  is  not  left  over  a  day  or  two.  On  the  other 
hand,  blowflies  will  put  meat  in  such  a  condition  that  it 
is  unusable  in  a  short  time.  After  the  carcass  is  skinned 
and  the  meat  quartered,  it  should,  if  possible,  be  left  in 
the  sun  and  wind  to  dry,  placed  separately  on  dry  rocks  or 
logs.  The  action  of  the  sun  and  wind  forms  a  smooth 
dry  glaze  over  the  meat  which  the  blowflies  will  not 
attack. 

DISEMBOWELLING. 

After  your  moose  is  down,  first  take  your  hunting- 
knife  and  make  an  incision  just  below  the  jugular  vein 
and  bleed  him.  Then  castrate  him.  Now,  beginning 
at  the  point  of  the  breast-bone,  insert  the  point  of  your 
knife,  which  should  have  a  curved,  sharp  blade,  under 

181 


With  Gun  &>  Rod  in  Canada 

the  skin  and  rip  the  moose  open  the  whole  length  of  the 
belly,  clean  to  the  tail.  Be  careful  not  to  let  the  knife 
puncture  the  wall  of  the  paunch  sac.  The  carcass 
should  be  lying  flat  on  its  back  during  this  operation. 
Then  roll  the  carcass  on  its  side.  With  your  knife  dis- 
connect the  various  ligaments  attaching  the  paunch  sac 
to  the  frame  and  roll  the  contents  out  of  the  carcass. 
Most  hunters  that  have  killed  any  kind  of  game  know 
enough  about  disembowelling  animals,  so  that  it  will  not 
be  necessary  to  give  further  details  of  this  operation. 
It  will  be  well  to  point  out,  however,  that  if  you  wish 
to  keep  the  meat  sweet,  the  sooner  the  animal  is  gutted 
after  killing,  the  better. 

Disconnect  the  heart  and  liver  from  the  waste  and  lay 
aside  in  the  sun  to  dry.  They  are  both  delicacies  that 
should  be  saved.  The  tongue  also  should  be  cut  out, 
as,  when  salted  and  smoked,  or  boiled,  it  is  most  palatable. 


SKINNING. 

Next  you  have  to  skin  the  animal.  Continue  the 
incision  made  in  the  hide  for  disembowelling  up  to  the 
chin  of  the  moose,  leaving  the  bell  on  one  side  of  the  cut, 
Cut  from  this  incision  up  the  inside  of  the  fore-leg  as 
far  as  the  hoof.  Skin  the  leg  by  pulling  the  skin  away 
from  the  flesh  with  one  hand  and  cutting  the  tissue  thus 
stretched  with  your  knife.  If  the  carcass  is  warm,  the 
skin  will  come  off  quite  easily.  With  a  leg  and  a  shoulder 
skinned,  continue  up  the  back  to  the  head  and  under  the 
shoulder  as  far  as  you  can  reach.  Continue  this  operation 
down  the  side  of  the  carcass,  taking  care  to  bring  the  hide 
away  clean,  leaving  no  meat  upon  it.  As  you  approach 
the  hind-quarters,  make  a  cut  up  the  inside  of  one  hind- 
leg  and  skin  it  the  same  as  you  did  the  fore-leg,  continuing 
the  operation  until  one  side  of  the  animal  is  completed 

182 


I 


To  face  p.  182 


Saving  Moose  Meat 

down  to  its  backbone.     Stretch  this  half  of  the  skin  out 
on  the  ground  and  roll  the  carcass  over  on  it,  then  skin 


the  other  side. 


CUTTING  UP. 


You  now  have  the  skin  laid  out  flat  on  the  ground, 
and  the  carcass  reposing  in  the  middle  of  it  and  ready  to 
quarter.  If  you  have  not  already  done  so,  separate  the 
arch  of  the  pelvis  bone  with  your  knife  or  axe,  and  wash 
out  the  inside  of  the  animal  with  water  carried  in  your 
camp-kettle.  Then  take  your  axe  and  knife  and  cut 
through  the  joint  in  the  neck-bone  where  it  joins  on  the 
head,  thus  disconnecting  the  head  from  the  body.  Be 
careful  not  to  cut  the  hide  during  this  operation.  Then 
take  your  axe  and  split  the  breast-bone  down  to  the  neck 
cavity,  as  shown  in  the  photo.  Now  split  the  backbone, 
leaving  an  equal  amount  of  bone  on  each  side  of  the  cut. 

An  experienced  and  skilful  moose  butcher  can  perform 
the  entire  operation  with  an  ordinary  hunting-knife,  but 
a  sharp  axe  is  an  easier  tool  to  use. 

You  now  have  the  carcass  laid  out  on  the  hide  as  shown 
in  the  picture,  which  keeps  the  meat  clean.  Fresh  meat 
is  sticky,  and  if  allowed  to  come  in  contact  with  leaves, 
grass,  or  dirt,  it  is  very  hard  to  clean. 

To  quarter  the  moose,  tip  up  one  side  of  the  carcass 
as  shown  in  the  photo,  cut  down  between  the  third  and 
fourth  rib,  from  the  hind  end  and  continuing  into  the 
split  backbone.  Repeat  the  operation  on  the  other  side, 
and  you  will  have  your  moose  cut  into  four  quarters  of 
nearly  equal  weight.  Then  take  your  knife  and  cut 
through  the  knees  and  hock-joints,  thus  disconnecting 
the  shanks,  as  they  are  useless  and  heavy  to  carry. 

An  ordinarily  strong  man  can  pick  up  from  the  ground 
and  shoulder  a  quarter  of  moose  weighing  from  125  to 

183 


With  Gun  £r>  Rod  in  Canada 


150  pounds,  and  carry  as  shown  in  one  of  the  photos. 
In  case  of  a  long  carry  being  contemplated,  it  is  well  to 
be  provided  with  pack-baskets,  and  cut  out  all  the  heavy 
bone.  You  can  do  this  by  splitting  down  the  leg  and 
shoulder  in  the  fore-quarters  and  removing  the  meat  in 
two  junks  from  the  bone.  In  the  hind-quarters  you 
simply  save  the  round  after  splitting  lengthwise  and 
removing  the  hip-bone.  This  is  a  wasteful  method,  but 
sometimes  necessary  with  a  long,  rough  trail  ahead. 
The  tender-loin  can  be  removed  from  each  side  of  the 
backbone  and  also  saved.  A  green  moose-hide  will 
weigh  nearly  100  pounds.  It  is  a  load  in  itself.  But  keep 
it,  as  after  the  hair  is  removed  and  it  is  oak-tanned  soft, 
it  makes  a  beautiful  piece  of  leather  for  a  smoking-room 
table  or  lounge. 

If  the  head  is  to  be  saved  for  mounting,  cut  the  neck 
of  the  hide  off  well  below  the  bell  and  carry  it  attached 
to  the  head.  The  head  of  a  moose  without  the  hide 
attached  will  weigh  about  100  pounds,  and  is  also  a  load 
in  itself. 

If  you  do  not  wish  to  save  the  head,  but  only  the  horns 
and  hide,  skin  the  head  without  cutting  off  the  neck  of 
the  hide,  remove  the  lower  jaw-bone,  and  take  the  skull 
out  with  horns  attached.  When  you  get  to  civilization, 
you  can  saw  the  horns  with  a  small  piece  of  forehead  bone 
attached  away  from  the  rest  of  the  skull. 

As  both  a  sharp  axe  and  a  sharp  hunting-knife  are 
essential  to  the  proper  dissection  of  an  animal,  be  sure 
to  carry  a  small  piece  of  whetstone  in  your  pocket.  A 
hunting-knife  or  axe  without  a  sharpening  stone  are  two 
very  exasperating  tools  to  attempt  to  use. 

After  the  meat  is  surface-dried  by  the  sun  and  wind, 
try  to  avoid  getting  it  wet  again,  as  flies  will  immediately 
settle  on  any  damp  surface.  Leave  the  hide  flesh  side  up 
to  the  weather,  and  let  it  dry  as  much  as  possible.  When 

184 


Saving  Moose  Meat 

you  come  to  carry  the  hide,  tie  it  up  with  a  piece  of  strong 
string,  as  it  is  very  slippery  and  awkward  to  handle 
otherwise.  Avoid  getting  the  hide  wet  after  you  have  it 
ready  to  handle,  as  it  will  soak  up  nearly  its  own  weight  in 
water,  and  it  takes  a  long  time  to  dry  out. 

Try  to  avoid  throwing  moose  meat  around  and  bruising 
it,  or,  in  other  words,  abusing  it.  As  a  food  it  is  fully 
as  valuable  as  the  best  beef,  and  amateur  hunters  should 
be  willing  to  sacrifice  time  and  money  if  necessary  to 
get  the  meat  they  have  killed  to  where  it  can  .be  used. 

When  you  have  had  your  sport,  do  not  be  afraid  to 
spend  a  little  additional  time  and  money  to  conserve 
the  meat. 

Moose  meat  will  keep  fresh  two  weeks  in  the  fall  of  the 
year,  if  properly  handled.  It  makes  fine  mince-meat, 
is  as  good  as  beef  when  salted,  and  makes  first-class  jerked 
venison  when  cut  in  strips  and  smoked. 

If  you  cannot  save  the  meat,  do  not  kill  the  moose. 
It  is  only  the  thoughtless,  inexperienced  tenderfoot  who 
kills  for  the  mere  sake  of  killing.  The  real  sportsman 
kills  either  for  the  trophy  or  for  the  food. 


The  Nine-Mile  Hold-Up      . 

THE  fall  following  the  close  of  the  Great  War,  two 
well-dressed  strangers  arrived  at  the  camp  on 
Lake  Rossignol,  quite  unannounced.  They  both 
wore  service  buttons  in  their  lapels.  One  was  a  little 
below  the  medium  height,  middle-aged,  and  stockily 
built,  with  black  hair  streaked  with  grey  and  clipped 
grey  moustache.  His  eyes  were  his  most  noticeable 
feature,  being  of  a  piercing  black.  His  face  was  tanned 
even  beyond  the  colour  that  would  naturally  be  acquired 
by  service  in  the  Army.  It  was  quite  evident  that  he 
was  an  outdoor  man  of  long  years'  standing.  He  turned 
out  to  be  a  wonderful  shot  with  the  rifle,  and  also  carried 
an  old-fashioned  45  frontier  model  Colt's  six-shooter, 
with  which  he  could  perform  miracles  in  the  way  of 
juggling  and  fancy  shooting.  He  registered  under  the 
name  of  Richard  Carver.  Mr.  Carver  was  slightly  bow- 
legged,  and  had  the  stilted  and  somewhat  stiff  walk  of 
the  habitual  horseman. 

The  other  was  broad-shouldered,  tall,  and  well  pro- 
portioned. He  had  square  jaws  and  a  sandy  complexion. 
He  was  quite  evidently  a  man  of  education,  and  had  at 
one  time  been  an  athlete,  judging  from  his  casual  feats 
of  strength,  stride,  and  general  deportment.  He,  like 
his  partner,  was  no  "  slouch  "  with  rifle  or  six-shooter, 
and  in  the  many  friendly  matches  with  either  arm,  he 
shot  a  close  second  to  his  friend  Carver.  He  registered 
under  the  name  of  J.  W.  Matthews.  Both  men  had 
been  wounded  in  the  War  and  were  slightly  crippled  from 
the  effects. 

1 86 


The  Nine-Mile  Hold-Up 

Although  they  were  very  taciturn  and  uncommunica- 
tive about  their  business  prior  to  the  War,  I  learned  that 
they  had  been  living  in  Europe  when  it  broke  out,  and  had 
enlisted  with  the  American  Army  when  it  joined  forces 
with  the  other  Allies.  From  bits  of  conversation  which 
I  overheard  during  several  days  that  we  spent  together 
under  canvas  near  the  head-waters  of  the  Shelburne 
River,  I  gathered  that  they  had  been  at  one  time  well 
acquainted  with  the  western  United  States.  As  I  had 
spent  some  years  in  the  West  myself,  mining  and  hunting, 
I  naturally  tried  to  enter  into  conversation  with  them  on 
what  I  had  a  right  to  believe  would  be  a  mutually  interest- 
ing subject.  Each  attempt,  however,  that  I  made  to 
draw  them  into  conversation  about  the  great  mountains 
and  Bad  Lands  of  Utah  and  Colorado  was  met  with 
utter  silence,  until,  discouraged,  I  dropped  the  subject 
entirely. 

Mr.  Matthews  seemed  to  be  interested  that  I  wrote 
for  the  sporting  magazines,  and  said  that  he  was  doing 
a  little  writing  himself.  I  noticed  that  he  carried 
materials  with  him  for  this  purpose,  and  did  considerable 
writing  at  convenient  times.  After  they  had  each  killed 
a  moose  and  were  packing  up  ready  to  leave,  Mr.  Matthews 
handed  me  a  roll  of  manuscript. 

"  I've  written  a  little  story  here,  pardner,"  he  said, 
"  that  perhaps  may  look  good  enough  to  you  to  send  to 
some  of  the  magazines  you  are  writing  for.  I  write  for 
fun  and  not  for  money.  If  you  can  make  anything  out 
of  this  you  are  welcome  to  do  so.  So  long  !" 

They  climbed  into  the  waiting  car,  and  waving  good- 
bye were  whirled  away. 

The  following  is  the  manuscript : 


187 


With  Gun  £?  Rod  in  Canada 


THE  NINE-MILE  HOLD-UP 

CHAPTER  i. 

"Well,  pard,  you're  no  tenderfoot  if  you  have  got  a 
college  education,  and  I  guess  we'll  put  her  through." 

"  It  cost  me  all  I  had,  but  it's  bound  to  work,  Butch," 
said  Mat,  as  he  thoughtfully  twirled  his  six-shooter  and 
viciously  snapped  it  on  the  empty  chamber. 

"  Looks  like  it,"  said  Butch. 

"  Well,  all  our  cash  is  gone  now,  and — we  need  it," 
concluded  Mat,  decidedly. 

"That's  right  too.  Better  hit  the  trail.  It's  near 
sun-up,"  said  Butch,  and  both  men  moved  quickly 
towards  the  picketed  horses. 

The  two  speakers  were  breaking  camp  on  the  bank 
of  a  small  creek  among  the  sandy  buttes  of  the  Bad  Lands 
in  western  Colorado.  It  was  in  the  year  1900.  "  Butch  '' 
was  a  little  below  the  medium  height,  young,  strongly 
built,  black  hair,  and  long  moustache.  His  piercing 
black  eyes  had  a  gun-like  glint  to  them,  with  a  slight 
suggestion  of  grim  humour.  His  face  was  tanned  by 
years  of  mountain  riding. 

"  Mat "  was  a  broad-shouldered  young  man,  taller 
than  Butch,  and  well  proportioned.  There  was  a  three 
days'  growth  of  beard  on  his  square  jaws,  as  also  the 
remains  of  an  old  tan,  that  betokened  months  or  perhaps 
years  of  exposure,  but  recent  environment  in  civilization. 
He  moved  like  an  athlete  and  sat  his  horse  like  a  cow- 
puncher. 

Both  men  were  equipped  with  regulation  cowboy 
outfits  that  certainly  had  seen  hard  usage.  They  carried 
six-guns  on  their  thighs  and  Winchesters  beneath  their 
saddle-flaps. 

They  mounted  and  trotted  off  to  the  west,  Butch 

188 


The  Nine-Mile  Hold-Up 

ahead,  with  a  lead-line  through  the  rawhide  halters  of 
ten  heavily  laden  pack-horses.  Mat  brought  up  in  the 
rear  or  rode  alongside  the  ponies,  snapping  the  end  of  his 
rope  at  the  lazy  ones  or  pricking  them  in  the  side  with 
an  outward  kick  of  his  spurred  heel.  The  men  seemed 
to  be  in  a  hurry. 

"  No  water  till  we  get  to  the  Hole,"  said  Butch,  jerk- 
ing the  lead-line. 

"  That's  the  place,  isn't  it  ?"  asked  Mat. 

"  Yep,"  from  Butch,  and  he  dug  the  spurs  into  his 
horse's  sides.  On  they  jogged  for  hours.  The  white 
alkali  dust  slowly  drifted  along  in  their  wake  and  gradu- 
ally covered  them  with  a  thin  greyish  coat.  Once  while 
stopping  to  tighten  cinches  and  pack-ropes,  Mat  said: 

"  Let's  see,  to-day  is  Monday;  we're  due  in  Nine  Mile 
Saturday  noon,  ain't  we,  Butch  ?" 

"  Yep." 

"  Got  the  batteries  ?" 

"  Yep." 

"  Powder  ?" 

"  Yep." 

"  Machines  ?" 

"  Yep." 

"  Didn't  forget  the  tanks  ?" 

"  Naw.    Say,  Mat,  you're  nervous.    Shut  up,  will  you !" 

Mat  shrugged  his  big  shoulders  and  "  shut  up." 

That  night  they  got  to  Green  River,  watered,  and, 
without  resting,  trotted  up  along  the  eastern  bank  by 
a  narrow  trail  and  disappeared  in  a  "  box  "  canyon,  or 
V  hole."  There  was  no  outlet  to  the  canyon  except 
the  trail  they  went  in  by,  and  the  sides  were  several 
hundred  feet  high.  They  pitched  camp,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  were  hard  at  work  unpacking  queer  cylindrical 
bundles  from  the  pack-horses.  The  surrounding  country 
was  totally  uninhabited. 

189 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 


CHAPTER  2. 

The  United  States  Army  Ambulance  came  lumbering 
up  Nine  Mile  Canyon  behind  four  straining  mules.  It 
was  heavily  loaded,  and  carried,  besides  less  valuable 
freight,  seventy-five  thousand  in  gold  and  greenbacks. 
It  was  the  money  for  the  Uintah  Indians  which  was  sent 
semi-annually  into  Fort  Duchesne  from  Price,  a  little 
station  on  the  Rio  Grande  Western  Railroad,  a  distance 
.of  ninety  miles.  With  the  ambulance  there  was  an 
escort  of  coloured  cavalry  or  "  Buffalo  soldiers,"  number- 
ing twenty-five  men,  twelve  of  them  riding  a  few  yards 
in  advance  and  the  rest  in  the  rear.  The  Lieutenant 
in  command  sat  on  the  seat  with  the  driver,  while  his 
horse  was  led  by  a  mounted  orderly.  They  drove 
slowly  along  the  road,  which  in  places  was  hardly  wide 
enough  for  a  single  wagon,  having  an  abyss  on  one  side 
and  a  tremendous  rock  slide  on  the  other,  that  seemed 
ready  to  slip  and  wipe  out  the  narrow  trail  any  minute. 
As  the  ambulance  came  opposite  one  of  these  rock  slides, 
it  halted  to  breathe  the  horses. 

Far  up  among  the  boulders,  hidden  from  the  trail, 
were  two  masked  men,  intently  watching  the  ambulance. 
Near  them,  besides  rifles  and  six-guns,  was  a  switchboard, 
batteries,  a  megaphone,  and  two  electrically  operated 
phonographs.  Half  a  dozen  thin,  green,  insulated  wires 
ran  from  the  switchboard  and  disappeared  among  the 
rocks.  The  two  men  were  talking  in  low  voices. 

"  When  I  shoot,  you  press  the  button,  Mat,"  said  the 
shorter  of  the  two. 

"  All  right,"  said  Mat. 

"  They've  stopped  !     Let  her  go,  partner  !" 

Butch' s  30-40  cracked,  and  down  fell  the  near  leader 
on  the  Government  wagon.  It  cracked  again,  and  down 

190 


The  Nine-Mile  Hold-Up 

came  both  wheelers.  A  terrific  explosion  a  few  rods  in 
front  of  the  soldiers  sent  the  rocks  sliding  and  tumbling 
into  the  trail,  completely  blocking  it.  The  whole 
canyon  seemed  to  be  falling  down.  Enormous  boulders 
rattled  and  bounded  down  the  steep  mountain-side,  and 
finally  went  crashing  into  the  canyon  bottom.  Before 
the  rocks  had  ceased  sliding  in  front  of  the  now  panic- 
stricken  detail,  there  was  another  awful  explosion,  and 
an  avalanche  of  rocks  cascaded  into  the  trail  behind  them, 
effectually  cutting  off  their  retreat.  Besides  the  noise 
and  unexpected  apparition  of  a  small  volcano  almost 
under  their  feet,  the  coloured  cavalrymen  were  pelted 
with  flying  rocks  and  sand. 

This  startling  combination  threw  them  into  utter 
confusion.  Several  horses  went  over  the  ledge,  their 
riders  saving  their  own  lives  by  throwing  themselves 
from  the  saddle.  The  other  horses  rushed  madly  up  and 
down  the  narrow  trail,  jamming  and  crushing  each  other, 
almost  uncontrolled  by  their  frightened  riders.  The 
Lieutenant  stood  up  in  the  wagon,  and  was  partially 
succeeding  in  restoring  discipline  among  the  frightened 
troop,  when  a  sharp  order  rang  out  from  the  rocks  above. 

"  Halt !"  commanded  the  voice;  and  again,  "  Halt !" 
in  menacing  accents.  This  was  accompanied  by  a  whole 
babble  of  gruff  voices  in  the  surrounding  cliffs. 

"  Blow  up  the  damned  niggers !"  "  Blow  'em  to 
Hell !"  "  Kill  the  black  sons  o'  guns !" 

The  frightened  soldiers  looked  in  vain  for  something 
to  shoot  at.  There  was  not  a  man  in  sight. 

Still  the  voices  kept  on :  "  Blow  up  the  damned  niggers !" 
"  Blow  'em  to  Hell !"  There  was  something  uncanny 
in  those  gruff,  menacing  voices  and  not  a  speaker  showing 
himself.  The  soldiers,  who  had  dismounted  at  the 
Lieutenant's  command,  cowered  in  fear.  The  Lieu- 
tenant had  a  creepy  feeling  in  the  small  of  his  back,  and 

191 


With  Gun  £?  Rod  in  Canada 


he  was  frightened  and  puzzled.  Suddenly,  in  an  instant 
of  comparative  silence,  Butch' s  sharp  voice  came  thunder- 
ing down  from  the  boulders.  He  was  speaking  through  a 
megaphone. 

"  Throw  up  your  hands !"  he  commanded.  "  Throw 
'em  up  !  There  are  three  more  mines  right  under  your 
feet,  and  I'll  blow  your  whole  outfit  to  Hell  if  you  stir 
a  step  or  pull  a  trigger  !  Up  with  'em,  quick  !" 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  a  pause.  All  looked  at  the 
Lieutenant  and  at  each  other  in  consternation.  There 
was  nothing  to  shoot  at.  What  could  they  do  ?  The 
Lieutenant  was  a  brave  man.  He  sprang  in  front  of  his 
demoralized  soldiers  and  yelled: 

"  Come  on,  men;  drive  'em  out  of  the  rocks !"  He 
started  towards  the  narrow  trail  which  led  up  amongst 
the  boulders. 

A  rifle  cracked  and  he  fell,  shot  through  the  thigh. 

"  It  is  no  use  for  you  coons  to  try  that  game,"  yelled 
Butch,  "  or  you'll  all  get  the  same  dose." 

With  their  leader  fallen,  no  one  attempted  to  resist. 

"  All  we  want  is  that  money,"  continued  Butch. 
"  Throw  your  guns  over  the  cliff  and  my  men  won't 
harm  you;  and,  damn  you,  if  you  don't  we'll  blow  you 
into  pieces  a  coyote  wouldn't  eat !" 

This  last  remark  seemed  to  strike  terror  to  the  hearts 
of  the  mystified  negroes.  Down  went  their  guns  and  up 
went  their  hands.  At  Butch's  command  they  walked 
to  an  indicated  spot  and  sat  down  with  their  hands  still 
over  their  heads.  Then  Butch  cheerfully  told  them  that 
they  were  sitting  on  fifty  pounds  of  blasting  powder, 
and  if  a  man  moved,  all  would  die.  Their  eyes  bulged 
and  they  turned  green  with  fear,  but  they  did  not  move. 
Rifle  in  one  hand  and  some  canvas  sacks  in  the  other, 
Butch  scrambled  quickly  down  the  rock  slide,  leaving 
Mat  above  and  now  in  plain  sight  of  the  soldiers.  When 

192 


The  Nine-Mile  Hold-Up 

he  was  almost  down  he  jumped  on  top  of  a  big  boulder 
and  explained  to  the  soldiers  that  his  men  had  an  electric 
firing  battery  by  which  they  could  blow  them  all  up  if 
they  saw  one  man  move  hand  or  foot.  He  gave  orders 
to  some  imaginary  men  hidden  among  the  rocks,  and  ran 
down  into  the  boxed-in  trail  and  over  to  the  ambulance, 
which  was  some  fifty  yards  from  where  the  soldiers  now 
sat.  He  jumped  into  the  wagon  and  rolled  out  four 
small  kegs  weighing  about  forty  pounds  apiece.  One  of 
these  he  smashed  open  with  a  rock.  It  was.  filled  with 
gold.  He  glanced  over  at  the  soldiers.  They  were 
quiet  and  seemed  curiously  interested  in  the  men  up  in 
the  rocks,  who  seemed  to  be  watching  them  stealthily. 
Butch  quietly  cornered  and  caught  three  of  the  now 
subdued  Government  horses  and  hitched  them  to  the 
wagon  wheel.  Picking  up  the  canvas  sacks,  which  were 
attached  in  pairs  like  the  panniers  of  a  pack-saddle,  he 
tossed  them  over  two  of  the  horses'  saddles,  fastened 
them  securely,  and  slipped  a  keg  in  each  of  the  four  sacks. 
They  balanced  perfectly.  He  led  the  horses  a  little  way 
up  the  trail  and  tied  them  to  a  cedar  stump.  He  jumped 
into  the  wagon,  and  after  being  in  there  a  minute,  he 
was  seen  to  jump  out  and  dodge  behind  a  big  rock. 

"  Don't  move,"  he  called  to  the  men. 

There  was  a  heavy  report  and  the  side  of  the  wagon 
was  blown  out.  Although  the  coloured  soldiers  ducked 
at  this  further  terrifying  explosion,  they  still  held  their 
hands  above  their  heads.  Butch  ran  over,  and  taking  up 
the  last  pair  of  canvas  sacks  disappeared  inside,  only  to 
reappear  shortly  with  the  bags  bulging  suggestively. 
He  threw  the  bags  across  the  third  horse's  saddle, 
picked  up  his  rifle,  and  deliberately  shot  the  remaining 
horses. 

"  You  coons  '11  have  to  walk  home,  I  guess,"  said  Butch, 
turning  to  the  soldiers.  "  Arms  tired,  eh  ?  Well,  we 

193  N 


With  Gun         Rod  in  Canada 


won't  keep  you  more  than  an  hour  longer.     Keep  'em 
up,  though  !" 

Jumping  on  the  back  of  the  third  horse  and  leading 
the  others,  he  went  scrambling  up  the  rock  slide  to  Mat. 

"  Got  the  coin  —  the  greenbacks  were  in  the  safe  — 
Didn't  know  the  combination  —  Blew  it  open  with  that 
bottle  of  nitre  —  Start  them  phonographs  working  — 
It'll  keep  them  coons  quiet  for  a  while  —  Better  be  mov- 
ing," said  Butch,  all  in  one  breath,  forestalling  any 
question  that  Mat  might  ask.  Mat  picked  up  the 
megaphone  and  told  the  soldiers  below  that  they  could 
move  when  "  the  fellows  in  the  rocks  "  said  so,  and  to  the 
Lieutenant  he  said: 

"  Hard  luck,  old  chap.  Glad  we  didn't  have  to  kill 
you.  The  wound  in  the  leg  was  necessary  to  keep  you 
quiet.  So  long  !" 

"  Come  on,  pard,"  said  Butch,  grinning.  "  Stop 
your  jawing  and  hit  the  trail." 

Suiting  action  to  words,  they  scrambled  to  the  mesa 
above,  mounted  their  own  waiting  saddle-horses,  and 
leading  the  Government  horses,  hit  the  trail  at  a  gallop. 

"  For  the  Hole,"  said  Mat.  Butch  nodded  and  dug 
in  his  spurs. 

Meanwhile,  the  poor  soldiers  were  sitting  with  their 
aching  arms  over  their  heads,  casting  furtive  glances  at 
the  menacing  red  sandstone  ledges,  and  listening  with 
shivers  to  the  jabbering  voices  still  repeating: 

"  Blow  up  the  damned  niggers  !" 

"  Blow  'em  to  Hell  !" 

"  Kill  the  black  sons  o'  guns  !" 

Suddenly  the  Lieutenant,  whom  Butch  had  compelled 
to  limp  over  and  sit  down  with  the  others,  dropped  his 
benumbed  arms  with  a  curse: 

"  Well,  damn  it  !  blow  us  up  if  you  are  going  to,  and 
don't  keep  us  sitting  here  all  night." 

194 


The  Nine-Mile  Hold-Up 

The  poor  soldiers  thought  he  had  surely  pronounced 
their  death  sentence,  and  yelled: 

"  Don't  shoot,  Massas,  don't  shoot.  Put  'em  up, 
Lieutenant,  for  God's  sake;  put  up  your  hands,  or  we're 
all  dead  men." 

But  the  Lieutenant's  wound  was  hurting  him  and  he 
was  obstinate.  He  sat  there  rubbing  his  leg.  The 
soldiers  begged  and  implored  him  to  put  up  his  hands. 
He  would  not  do  it.  Gradually  the  voices  among  the 
rocks  grew  fainter,  until  only  a  low  humming  sound 
reached  the  ears  of  the  terrified  victims  below.  Then 
it  began  to  dawn  on  all  that  they  had  not  yet  been  blown 
up  for  the  Lieutenant's  defiant  attitude,  neither  had  it 
brought  out  fresh  expletives  from  the  brigands  behind 
the  boulders.  One  after  another  they  dropped  their 
tired  arms. 

There  was  a  sudden  exclamation  from  the  Lieutenant : 
"  Why,  hang  it  all,  boys,  those  are  talking-machines 
up  in  the  rocks  there  !  They've  said  the  same  words 
the  same  way  for  twenty  minutes.  We've  been  nicely 
fooled,  we  have.  All  up  !  Fall  in  !  Help  me  to  the 
wagon,  sergeant.  Now,  my  men,  go  up  into  those  rocks, 
and  you'll  see  I'm  right.  Sergeant,  don't  fool  with  any 
electrical  apparatus  or  we  may  get  blown  up  yet." 

The  men  obeyed  and  found  our  friends'  stronghold 
just  as  they  had  left  it.  They  did  not  fool  with  the 
switchboard,  but  just  cut  the  wires  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  Lieutenant  despatched  a  detail 
of  men  afoot  to  the  Post  and  another  to  the  nearest 
ranch  for  horses,  a  surgeon,  and  a  troop  with  which  to 
chase  the  robbers.  The  detail  sent  to  the  Post  met 
within  an  hour  a  mounted  squad  riding  hard  towards 
the  scene  of  the  hold-up.  A  ranger  in  the  vicinity  had 
heard  the  explosions  and  had  telephoned  the  Post  of  the 
disturbance  off  towards  the  south,  which  had  sent  troops 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

flying  in  that  direction,  fearing  for  their  pay-roll.  They 
got  to  the  scene  of  the  robbery  not  more  than  two  hours 
and  a  half  after  it  occurred,  and  were  in  hot  pursuit  in  a 
few  minutes  more;  so  the  fugitives,  with  their  seventy- 
five  thousand  dollars  in  gold  and  greenbacks,  had  barely 
three  hours'  start  of  their  pursuers. 


CHAPTER  3. 

It  was  just  about  dark  and  Butch  was  riding  ahead 
at  a  sharp  trot.  Mat  rode  behind  and  kept  the  pack- 
animals  moving. 

Suddenly  Butch  pulled  up,  dropped  off  his  horse  and 
put  his  ear  to  the  ground.  He  got  quickly  up,  and  with  a 
sweeping  glance  around  said  in  a  low,  tense  voice : 

"  We  have  got  to  ride  for  it.     They  are  close  on  to  us 


now." 


He  threw  himself  on  his  horse,  and  jerking  the  lead-line, 
started  off.  Mat  lashed  the  pack-horses  into  a  run. 
They  were  still  fairly  fresh  and  lightly  loaded. 

As  they  mounted  the  ridge  before  descending  into 
Green  River  Canyon,  a  rifle-ball  zipped  past  Mat's  ear. 

He  turned  and  caught  sight  of  a  string  of  soldiers  just 
galloping  into  sight  in  the  trail  behind  him. 

Down  the  trail  to  the  river  ran  the  fugitives.  It  was 
only  a  mile  more  to  the  water,  over  a  crooked  trail  which 
Butch  knew  like  a  book;  not  so  the  soldiers.  When  they 
hit  the  rough,  rocky  trail,  they  had  to  pull  up.  A  fall 
would  mean  certain  death. 

Down  they  went  at  a  sliding  trot.  The  fugitives  were 
gaining  as  they  slid,  stumbled,  and  sprang  down  the  trail 
like  mountain  goats.  Mat  had  urged  the  pack-horses 
to  their  utmost.  He  risked  everything  for  speed.  A  fall 
would  mean  capture,  but  down  they  went. 

196 


The  Nine-Mile  Hold-Up 

It  was  shortly  too  dark  for  the  soldiers  to  see  the  flying 
outlaws. 

Butch  and  Mat  struck  the  river  at  last,  and  Butch's 
horse  plunged  into  the  swift  current  without  hesitation. 
But  the  pack-horses  threw  up  their  heads  and  refused  to 
go  in.  There  was  no  time  to  lose.  Mat  drew  his  knife 
and  deliberately  jabbed  it  into  the  lead  horse's  flank. 
With  a  snort  he  plunged  into  the  river,  half  dragging 
the  others  after  him.  Mat  jabbed  each  horse  in  turn, 
and  each  did  his  best  to  get  into  the  water  the  shortest 
way.  Once  started  they  all  swam  strongly  for  the 
opposite  shore.  A  regular  hail  of  bullets  cut  the  water 
near  them  when  they  were  in  the  middle  of  the  stream. 
The  soldiers  had  reached  the  bank  and  were  firing  in  the 
dark  at  the  splashing,  but  no  one  was  hurt. 

Just  as  the  fugitive  clambered  up  the  bank  on  one  side, 
the  soldiers  plunged  into  the  water  on  the  other.  Butch 
headed  up  the  trail  for  the  Hole,  followed  by  Mat  and  the 
pack-horses. 

When  the  soldiers  reached  the  opposite  shore,  the 
Captain  in  command  struck  a  match  and  examined  the 
trail.  He  followed  it  afoot  for  a  few  rods,  examining 
the  general  direction  closely. 

Rising  quickly  from  his  scrutiny  of  the  tracks,  with 
an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  exultation,  he  turned 
towards  his  men  and  said: 

'  We've  got  'em  now,  boys,  sure !  They  have  made  a 
mistake  and  taken  the  trail  into  the  Hole.  It's  a  regular 
trap ;  this  trail  is  the  only  outlet.  We'll  go  along  a  little 
farther  and  camp  for  the  night.  Three  sentinels  will  be 
enough  at  the  mouth  of  the  Hole." 

They  rode  along  a  few  yards  and  dismounted.  Hard- 
tack and  water  was  their  supper,  as  no  fires  were  allowed. 
The  tired  horses  were  led  back  to  a  plot  of  grass  on  the 
river-bank.  Sentinels  were  set,  and  the  rest  lay  down 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 

beneath  the  starlight.  The  Captain  lay  there  thinking 
what  a  rich  reward  he  would  get  for  this  day's  work. 
He  had  surely  caught  the  robbers  now,  and  that  meant 
reward — money  and  perhaps  promotion. 

He  fell  asleep  with  very  pleasant  thoughts  running 
through  his  head. 

At  twelve  o'clock  and  three  the  watch  was  relieved, 
and  all  was  reported  quiet. 

It  was  daylight  before  the  Captain  cared  to  get  ready 
to  go  and  make  his  capture.  It  was  sun-up  before  he 
walked,  carbine  in  hand,  into  the  mouth  of  the  Hole. 
His  men  were  at  his  heels. 

In  the  centre  of  the  smooth  grass-covered  bottom  of 
the  Hole  were  five  horses  quietly  grazing.  Three  were 
Government  horses,  as  their  equipment  showed;  the  other 
two  were  mountain-trained  thoroughbreds.  There  were 
neither  camp  nor  men  in  sight.  The  Captain  sent  his 
squad  spreading  out  around  the  Hole  in  all  directions, 
looking  behind  the  few  cedars  and  boulders,  but  the 
robbers  were  not  there.  He  was  puzzled  and  sent  men 
to  look  for  tracks.  There  were  a  few  footprints  near 
the  centre  of  the  Hole,  but  that  was  all.  The  sides 
of  the  Hole  went  straight  up.  The  only  trail  was  the 
way  the  soldiers  came  in. 

The  Captain  sent  men  around  to  look  for  tracks  on  the 
mesa  above.  There  were  no  tracks  there.  Then  he 
made  a  diligent  search  for  a  cave  or  pit  of  any  description, 
without  success. 

The  only  things  of  unusual  interest  in  the  Hole  were 
three  stout  iron  ring-bolts  cemented  into  the  sides  of  as 
many  big  boulders.  Our  friends  had  successfully  con- 
cealed all  other  traces  of  their  mysterious  disappearance. 

"  The  birds  must  have  flown,"  quoth  the  chagrined 
Captain,  and  he  took  the  trail  for  the  Post  to  report  his 
story  of  the  mysterious  escape.  His  account  was  listened 

198 


The  Nine-Mile  Hold-Up 

to  with  incredulity  at  first,  but  when  the  Post  Commander 
had  investigated  it,  he  also  was  nonplussed.  The 
country  was  watched  for  miles  around,  and  notices  were 
posted  and  rewards  offered,  but  no  one  ever  claimed  the 
rewards.  It  was  pronounced  to  be  the  cleverest  and 
slickest  job  ever  put  up  on  the  Government,  and  that 
was  all  that  was  said  about  it. 

The  Lieutenant  means  to  dig  some  day  to  find  out  if 
they  really  were  sitting  on  a  mine. 

CHAPTER  4. 

Two  modishly  dressed  and  much-tanned  gentlemen 
were  watching  Santos-Dumont  make  his  attempt  to  sail 
his  airship  around  the  Eiffel  Tower  in  Paris.  They 
showed  even  more  than  the  usual  interest,  and  when  he 
had  finally  accomplished  the  wonderful  performance, 
the  shorter  of  the  two  said: 

"  If  we  could  have  steered  ours  like  that,  we  wouldn't 
have  landed  in  old  Mexico,  eh,  Mat  ?" 

"  That's  right,  too,  old  man,"  said  the  taller,  "  but  he 
only  gets  twenty  thousand  dollars  for  his  voyage,  and 
don't  get  that  until  he  lands.  We  took  ours  with  us." 

Both  laughed  and  turned  towards  their  hotel  and 
dinner. 

At  the  table  they  were  extremely  quiet.  There  was 
a  far-away  look  in  the  eyes  of  the  smaller  of  the  two  men, 
as  he  furtively  studied  his  vis-d-vis.  Finally  he  broke 
out  with: 

"  It  strikes  me  as  mighty  queer,  Mat,  that  you  had  the 
nerve  to  tackle  our  country  out  there  after  being  brought 
up  to  this  sort  of  thing,  and  on  top  of  it  all  to  concoct 
the  best  '  divide  up  '  scheme  I  ever  heard  of.  What 
started  you  off  ?" 

"  Well,  Butch,  I've  got  a  pretty  clear  conscience. 

199 


With  Gun     r>  Rod  in  Canada 


You  know  it  cost  me  fifty  thousand  dollars  to  prove  my 
innocence  in  that  counterfeiting  case,  besides  three  years 
practically  in  jail,  and  I  was  as  innocent  as  a  lamb.  I 
thought  I  might  just  as  well  get  the  fun  as  the  blame, 
and  I  felt  as  though  the  Government  owed  me  that 
money.  It  was  a  question  of  make  or  break  with  me." 

"  Me  too  !"  said  Butch;  and,  lifting  his  glass:  "  Here's 
how  !" 

"  And  how  about  you,  Butch  ?"  queried  Mat. 

"  Nothing  much.  I  was  on  the  wrong  side  of  politics, 
that's  all.  As  you  may  have  heard,  Utah  Mormon 
politicians  were  some  violent  in  the  old  days,  and  I  served 
time  for  killing  a  sheep-herder  that  I  never  laid  eyes  on 
until  he  was  dead.  I,  too,  felt  that  the  Government 
owed  me  something." 


I  have  often  wondered  if  J.  W.  Matthews  could  possibly 
have  been  "  Mat  "  in  the  above  story,  and  if  Mr.  Richard 
Carver  had  ever  by  chance  carried  the  nickname  of 
"  Butch."  There  is  something  suggestively  synonymous 
about  their  names  and  the  names  of  the  two  heroes  of 
the  yarn. 


200 


Fly-Fishing  among  the  Ice-Cakes 

WHILE   the  T.B.M.    is   still  enjoying  musical 
comedy,  dinner-parties,  bridge  and  billiards  as 
his  chief  recreations,  and  long  before  he  dare 
to  seriously  overhaul  his  fishing  tackle  in  the  presence  of 
his  jeering  family,  the  sport  of  fly-fishing  for  salmon  is 
well    under    way  on    the    Medway    River   in    Queen's 
County,  Nova  Scotia. 

The  season  opens  February  ist.  Its  advent  is  often 
celebrated  by  cold,  snowy,  blustery  weather.  Upon 
such  days  the  salmon  are  unmolested.  The  first  quiet, 
sunny  day  following,  however,  a  few  of  the  old-timers 
limber  up  their  fourteen-foot  rods  and  drop  a  fly  in  any 
running  water  that  King  Frost  has  overlooked.  The 
first  salmon  are  usually  shipped  to  Boston  or  Halifax, 
where  they  claim  their  rightful  place  at  some  kingly 
banquet.  The  early  fishermen  are  nothing  if  not  thrifty- 
A  fifteen-pound  salmon  at  seventy-five  cents  a  pound — 
well,  you  can  figure  it  for  yourself. 

The  tackle  used  for  this  winter  fishing  roust  be  strong 
and  tough.  A  winter  salmon  will  weigh  anywhere  from 
nine  to  twenty  pounds.  They  are  in  perfect  condition, 
and  are  as  resilient  as  tempered  steel  and  resolute  as  a 
bull  terrier.  After  being  hooked  they  will  often  dart 
under  the  ice,  and  the  line  will  have  to  stand  not  only 
punishing  strain,  but  chafing  on  the  edge  of  the  floes. 
The  fishing  is  usually  done  in  a  current  of  from  three  to 
seven  miles  an  hour.  Many  a  salmon  breaks  away  with 
the  help  of  a  floating  ice-cake.  The  line  is  often  glazed 

201 


With  Gun     P  Rod  in  Canada 


with  ice,  the  reel  sometimes  entirely  frozen  up,  and  the 
fisherman  feels  as  though  he  were  also. 

A  direct-acting,  very  strong  reel  is  used,  capable  of 
holding  at  least  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of  heavy 
line;  six  or  eight  feet  of  stout,  twisted  gut  leader,  swing- 
ing a  fly  two  inches  long,  is  the  accepted  outfit.  The  fly 
is  home-made  and  is  decorated  with  a  pheasant  wing,  a 
little  touch  of  jungle  cock,  and  a  silver  or  gold  body. 
A  three-foot  gaff  with  a  three-inch  hook  completes  the 
apparatus. 

When  fishing,  the  fly  is  cast  and  allowed  to  sink  from 
one  to  two  feet  under  water.  It  is  then  swept  with  slow, 
jerking  motions  through  the  likely  pools  or  eddies.  When 
a  fish  strikes  he  is  allowed  to  have  the  fly  a  second  or  two 
before  the  hook  is  set.  The  salmon  do  not  come  up  the 
river  in  large  numbers  until  the  ice  is  entirely  out  of  the 
channels.  The  winter  fish  make  their  way  but  slowly 
upstream,  often  lying  for  several  days  in  the  same  pool  or 
eddy  and  some  feet  under  water.  Just  after  rain,  or  a 
warm,  bright  day,  they  will  move  a  little  way  upstream 
and  "  hole  up  "  again. 

If  the  fishing  is  done  in  extremely  frosty  weather  a 
short  line  is  used,  as  too  much  wet  line  freezes  upon  the 
reel,  with  the  consequent  loss  of  a  fish  in  case  of  a  strike. 

If  the  river  is  open,  fishing  is  done  from  boats  or 
canoes.  This  is  colder  work  than  fishing  from  the  edge 
of  the  ice,  but  gives  a  fisherman  a  chance  to  follow  a 
"  bad  "  one  and  gaff  it.  The  boats  are  handled  in  the 
swift  current  with  a  long  pike-pole  and  kellick,  or  anchor. 
The  anchor  rope  passes  through  a  pulley,  or  hole,  in  the 
stem  of  the  boat,  and  thence  aft  to  a  elect  on  a  rear 
thwart,  near  which  the  fisherman  stands  or  kneels  to  cast. 

When  a  salmon  strikes,  it  is  usually  a  short,  hard  battle. 
The  native  fishermen  do  not  believe  that  it  is  policy  to 
torture  or  run  the  risk  of  losing  a  valuable  fish  by  long- 

202 


Fly-Fishing  among  the  Ice-Cakes 

drawn-out  "  playing."  They  are  convinced  that  if  a 
salmon  succeeds  in  breaking  a  leader  and  gets  away  with 
a  hook  in  its  mouth  and  a  length  of  trailing,  irritating 
gut  hanging  to  it,  it  will  live  but  a  short  while.  They 
assert  that  the  leader  will  get  tangled,  snag  the  fish  and 
drown  it,  or  so  impede  its  fighting  qualities  that  the  eels 
will  attack  and  eat  it.  There  is  no  doubt  that  eels  which 
grow  to  a  very  large  size  in  these  waters  do  attack  salmon 
that  are  the  least  incapacitated  and  destroy  them.  More 
than  one  fish  has  been  pounced  upon  by  these  ferocious 
scavengers  between  the  time  of  taking  the  fly  and  being 
gaffed. 

The  question  is  often  asked  why  a  salmon  will  take  a  fly, 
since  the  lure  does  not  resemble  anything  that  swims  in 
the  water,  floats  upon  it,  nor  flies  above  it.  Strange  as 
it  may  seem,  nothing  in  the  form  of  food  is  ever  found  in 
a  salmon's  stomach,  if  killed  on  its  way  upstream.  The 
only  reasonable  answer  is  that  the  salmon  is  a  true  sport 
and  is  chock-full  of  curiosity. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  slink,  racer,  or  spawned  salmon, 
if  taken  on  the  way  downstream,  is  a  voracious  feeder, 
and  will  grab  anything  from  a  store-made  fly  to  a  chunk 
of  meat. 

It  is  against  the  law  to  catch  and  keep  racers.  Although 
they  are  the  full  length  of  the  prime  salmon,  they  are 
very  slim  and  slinky  in  appearance.  The  flesh  is  white 
and  comparatively  soft.  The  salmon  just  in  from  sea 
on  their  way  up  to  the  spawning  beds  are  a  beautiful, 
bright,  silver  colour,  and  are  fat,  pink  deliciousness  from 
head  to  tail. 

If  a  fisherman  is  hardy  and  enthusiastic  enough,  he 
should  assuredly  take  a  week  off  in  February  or  March 
and  experience  the  thrills  coincident  with  a  tug-of-war 
with  a  Salmo  salar. 


203 


Resurrection 

OLD  JOE  of  Caledonia  was  reputed  to  be  the  best 
guide  and  the  biggest  liar  in  Nova  Scotia.  After 
spending  several  weeks  in  his  company,  one  of  his 
intimate  friends  was  so  profoundly  convinced  that  Joe's 
reputation  was  not  undeserved,  that  he  sent  him  a  large, 
wicked-looking  hunting-knife,  upon  the  handle  of  which 
was  inscribed,  in  plain  English,  both  the  compliment 
and  the  insult.  The  way  Old  Joe  showed  the  knife  around, 
pridefully,  to  friend  and  stranger  alike,  would  lead  one 
to  believe  that  he  thought  it  as  essential  to  be  a  big  liar 
as  it  was  to  be  a  good  guide. 

The  number  of  Joe's  stories  always  struck  me  as  being 
a  little  in  excess  of  the  requirements  for  the  proper  enter- 
tainment of  a  "  sport."  The  quality  of  them,  however, 
was  not  flagrantly  doubtful.  In  fact,  I  believe  that  all 
of  his  stories  were  founded  on  the  actual  experiences  of 
himself  or  others.  No  active  man  could  spend  fifty  years 
as  a  hunter  and  lumberman  in  the  Canadian  woods,  as 
a  farmer  on  the  Canadian  prairies,  and  as  a  salt-water 
sailor,  without  accumulating  an  extensive  fund  of  fact 
and  fiction.  Add  to  this  experience  a  natural  gift  as  a 
raconteur,  and  you  have  the  stuff  of  which  liars  are  made. 

It  was  fifteen  years  ago  when  I  first  heard  Joe's  string 
of  fish  stories.  I  did  not  believe  any  of  them.  To-day 
I  am  willing  to  listen  with  respect  and  an  open  mind  to 
any  old-timer's  yarns,  for  I  know  from  experience  that 
truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  and  that  almost  anything 
can  happen  in  the  woods.  I  don't  believe  in  Moochungs, 
HidanbifHms,  nor  Sidehill-gougers,  but  I  do  believe  that 

204 


Resurrection 

guides  and  other  wild  animals  have  a  capacity  for  perform- 
ing seemingly  impossible  stunts.  The  following  adventure 
is  only  one  of  many  that  go  to  strengthen  this  impression : 

One  bright  October  morning,  a  few  years  ago,  Joe  and 
I  were  sitting  on  top  of  the  big  Indian  lookout  rock  on 
the  edge  of  Kempton's  Bog,  in  the  Lake  Rossignol  district 
of  Nova  Scotia.  We  had  been  moose  calling.  As  a 
fresh  breeze  had  sprung  up,  Joe  said  it  was  no  use  to  call 
any  more,  since  if  a  bull  were  within  earshot  he  would  work 
around  to  leeward  of  us,  get  our  scent,  and  run  away  before 
coming  within  our  range  of  vision.  Being  young  and  no 
respecter  of  sylvan  traditions,  I  picked  up  the  call,  and 
essaying  a  near  imitation  of  a  cow  in  distress,  sent  a  sound 
that  was  a  cross  between  a  whine  and  a  moo  waveringly 
over  the  bog. 

Then  impossibilities  began  to  happen.  My  inexperi- 
ence in  moose  calling  must  have  imparted  something 
of  its  essence  to  my  plaint,  and  impressed  the  big  bull 
that  immediately  answered  with  the  idea  that  there  was 
in  the  vicinity  a  poor  little  ingenue,  patently  in  need  of 
a  large  and  strong  protector.  That's  where  I  had  Old 
Joe.  He  was  too  much  of  an  old-timer,  and  his  call 
denoted  too  much  worldly  wisdom  to  attract  any  philan- 
dering and  blase  old  bull.  The  big  moose  trotted  right 
down  the  wind  and  stuck  its  head  out  of  a  bunch  of  pine, 
hardly  fifty  steps  from  where  we  crouched  on  the  rim  of 
the  rock.  I  fired  one  shot  from  my  old  3O-U.S.A.,  and 
the  bull  dropped  in  his  tracks.  As  he  didn't  kick  nor 
move,  Joe  and  I  clambered  down  to  look  him  over.  My 
bullet  had  struck  him  just  behind  the  left  ear,  and  passing 
diagonally  down  through  the  neck,  had  come  out  just 
ahead  of  the  right  shoulder. 

"  Good  boy  !"  exclaimed  Joe. 

To  celebrate  the  occasion,  I  took  a  silver  flask  out  of 
my  pocket  and  gave  Joe  a  drink.  While  I  was  taking  mine, 

205 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

Joe  unsheathed  his  knife  for  the  purpose  of  bleeding  the 
moose.  As  the  carcass  lay  on  its  left  side,  Joe  stood  at 
its  back,  and  taking  it  by  one  horn,  tipped  the  head  up 
and  made  the  necessary  incision  in  the  throat.  As  the 
knife  entered,  the  big  animal  began  to  thrash,  and  twisting 
on  to  its  back,  one  of  its  hind-feet  just  missed  Joe's  head  ! 
As  Joe  dodged  back  the  moose  jumped  to  its  feet  and 
started  to  walk  away.  I  was  gaping  at  this  performance 
in  a  sort  of  trance  with  the  flask  in  one  hand  and  rifle 
in  the  other. 

"  Give  it  to  him  !"  said  Joe. 

"  I  won't  do  it !  He  can't  go  far,  and  I'll  have  to  shoot 
right  into  the  meat." 

The  moose  was  now  trotting. 

"  He'll  get  away,"  exclaimed  Joe,  excitedly. 

I  expected  to  see  it  stumble  and  fall  any  second,  so 
stood  there  calmly  screwing  on  the  cap  of  my  flask.  It 
didn't  look  possible  for  a  moose  that  had  been  knocked 
down  and  then  had  its  throat  cut  to  run  very  far.  Since 
Joe  was  urging  me  to  fire,  and  the  moose  was  now  about 
a  hundred  yards  off  and  running  straight  away  from  the 
lake  and  our  canoe,  I  decided  it  was  better  to  shoot, 
even  at  the  risk  of  spoiling  a  hind-quarter,  than  it  was  to 
have  to  pack  the  meat  a  long  distance;  so,  with  much 
over-confidence,  I  raised  my  rifle,  fired,  and  missed. 
The  beast  disappeared  behind  some  bushes.  We  followed. 
First  it  went  over  and  through  a  lot  of  down  timber, 
leaving  bunches  of  hair  on  logs  fully  five  feet  from  the 
ground.  It  hardly  bled  at  all,  which  puzzled  both  Joe 
and  me.  Then  it  jogged  over  rocky  ground,  leaving 
no  perceptible  track.  It  took  us  an  hour  and  a  half  to 
again  pick  up  its  spoor  in  the  soft  ground  on  the  opposite 
side  of  this  rocky  area.  Then  it  ran  through  a  wet  bog, 
where  we  floundered  up  to  our  knees  in  mud.  All  this 
while  it  was  fleeing  straight  away  from  the  landing  where 

206 


Resurrection 

we  had  left  the  canoe.  It  was  noon,  finally,  when  we 
found  it  flat  upon  its  belly,  midstream  in  a  brook.  It 
had  sunk  down  in  a  trotting  position,  with  one  foot  out 
ahead  and  one  behind,  and  muzzle  reaching  out  like  the 
head  of  a  racehorse  going  under  the  wire.  It  was  dead. 

I  can  never  remember  being  so  glad  to  see  a  moose — 
before  or  since. 

Upon  dressing  and  skinning  the  carcass,  we  found  that 
Joe's  knife-stroke  had  missed  the  jugular  vein,  but  had 
cut  the  windpipe.  The  moose  had  swallowed  all  the 
blood,  and  had  run  a  mile  and  a  half  in  this  condition. 
My  bullet  had  missed  the  neck-bone. 

Joe  carried  the  head  and  about  ten  pounds  of  meat. 
I  tied  up  the  slippery  hide  and  struggled  along  with  that. 
Going  through  the  bog,  it  seemed  to  me  that  Joe  skipped 
right  along  over  the  top  of  it  like  a  feather,  while  I  sank 
to  my  knees  at  every  step.  Sometimes  it's  an  advantage 
to  have  great  big  feet ! 

When  we  reached  the  tents  with  the  prima  facie 
evidence  of  our  hunt,  the  only  part  of  our  adventure 
that  any  of  the  others  would  take  the  least  stock  in  was 
that  we  had  killed  a  moose.  I  sent  three  guides  and  Old 
Joe  to  carry  out  the  four  quarters  of  the  meat. 

Joe  adds  appreciably  to  his  reputation  every  time  he 
tells  the  story  of  the  moose  that  vamosed  after  being  shot 
and  having  his  throat  cut. 


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A  Cruise  on  Lake  Rossignol, 
Nova  Scotia 

THE  BOAT. 

A  1-FOOT  Seabright  dory;  7  horse-power;  Gray 
engine;  one-cylinder,  two-cycle;  high  and  low 
tension  ignition;  propeller  protected  from  rocks 
by  a  3-inch  steel  shoe  and  a  racket-shaped  steel  guard; 
tank  holds  18  gallons  of  gas;   equipped  with  oars,  sail, 
centreboard,  wheel  and  tiller,  compass,  fog-horn,  life- 
preserver  cushions,  lights,  etc. 

THE  CREW. 

The  owner — with  a  predilection  for  taking  pictures 
and  camping  out. 

His  wife — with  inclinations  toward  Broadway. 

His  brother — a  veteran  of  the  World  War,  with  leanings 
toward  pioneering. 

His  guide — reputed  to  be  the  best  guide  and  the 
biggest  liar  in  Nova  Scotia. 

His  dog — a  Dalmatian  with  aptitude  for  always  rinding 
a  cosy  corner  for  himself  and  getting  in  the  picture. 

THE  POINT  OF  EMBARKATION. 
Lowe's  Landing,  on  Lake  Rossignol,  Nova  Scotia. 

THE  DATE. 
Late  October,  A.D.  1919. 

THE  PURPOSE. 

Exploring,  moose-hunting,  trout-fishing,  duck-shoot- 
ing, etc. 

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A  Cruise  on  Lake  Rossignol 

The  Lake  Rossignol  watershed  contains  five  hundred 
square  miles,  all  draining  into  the  Mersey  River  and 
emptying  into  the  ocean  at  Liverpool,  Nova  Scotia. 
The  main  basin  is  known  as  Lake  Rossignol.  It  is  the 
largest  body  of  fresh  water  in  the  province.  There  are 
innumerable  connecting  rivers  and  lakes.  The  surround- 
ing country  is  uninhabited,  with  the  exception  of  a  couple 
of  hunting-camps  and  the  abode  of  the  caretaker  of  the 
dam  at  Indian  Gardens,  at  the  outlet  of  the  big  lake.  It 
is  a  fine  game  and  fish  country.  Many  moose,  deer, 
trout,  bear,  and  other  game  are  taken  from  its  area  each 
season. 

Navigation  is  difficult  on  account  of  uncharted  channels 
and  rocks.  There  are  no  buoys,  lights,  or  other  con- 
ventional marks  by  which  to  steer.  As  the  gates  in  the 
dam  at  Indian  Gardens  are  manipulated  to  supply  or 
hold  back  water  for  the  pulp-mills  just  above  the  town  of 
Liverpool,  the  constantly  changing  water-level  creates 
a  condition  that  makes  navigation  by  motor-boat  ex- 
tremely hazardous  for  the  uninitiated.  Consequently, 
there  are  only  half  a  dozen  power  boats  within  the  entire 
watershed. 

FIRST  DAY. 

It  was  a  perfect  morning.  We  loaded  our  rifles, 
shotgun,  blankets,  tent,  grub,  and  camera  into  the  motor- 
boat,  and  towing  a  seventeen-foot  Peterborough  canoe 
as  a  tender,  shoved  off  from  the  dock  at  our  hunting-camp 
on  Lowe's  Landing.  We  headed  for  the  channel  out  of 
Lowe's  Lake  into  Lake  Rossignol  proper.  The  channel 
is  as  crooked  as  Croker  and  rocky  as  the  road  to  Heaven^ 
but  Brother  Ken  negotiated  it  safely.  We  then  headed 
south  for  the  Hopper,  seven  miles  away.  En  route,  we 
passed  between  Bear  and  Spark  Islands,  and  many  other 
islands  unnamed  and  uncharted.  The  Hopper  is  so  called 

209  o 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 


because  it  is  shaped  like  a  funnel,  and  the  out  flowing 
waters  of  Lake  Rossignol  have  to  crowd  through  this 
narrow  passage  on  their  way  to  the  sea. 

We  spoke  a  fast-moving  Sponsen  power  canoe  just  off 
Bear  Island,  whose  owner  was  evidently  taking  advantage 
of  the  unusually  calm  day  to  sport  around  in  his  pretty 
craft. 

As  we  intended  to  try  to  "  call  "  a  moose  at  the  Hopper, 
I  got  the  crew  to  set  me  ashore  so  I  could  get  a  picture 
of  our  boat  as  it  passed  through  the  Narrows.  Ken 
stood  up  to  watch  for  rocks  while  Joe  steered.  With  a 
four-mile  current  to  help  and  her  own  modest  speed  of 
eight  miles  per  hour,  the  dory  swept  through  in  grand 
style  and  rounded  to  in  the  cove  back  of  the  high  rock 
on  the  west  shore,  from  which  place  we  were  going  to 
"  call." 

After  landing  Joe  took  the  lead  with  his  birch-bark 
moose  call  in  hand.  He  headed  for  the  top  of  the  cliff. 
Ken  snapped  us  and  remarked  that  we  looked  like  a  bunch 
of  elephant-hunters  in  an  African  jungle.  Joe  imitated 
the  whine  of  a  cow  moose  perhaps  five  times  during  the 
next  hour.  Though  it  was  calm  and  we  could  see  and 
hear  a  long  way  off  in  every  direction,  no  philandering 
old  bull  showed  up  that  day. 

Ken  and  the  Missus  tried  for  a  few  trout  from  the  canoe, 
and  gave  me  another  opportunity  for  a  picture.  A  canoe 
is  certainly  a  pretty  and  convenient  tender  when  cruising 
on  inland  waters,  and  also  makes  a  fairly  safe  lifeboat 
in  an  emergency,  provided  it  is  properly  handled.  It  is 
a  cranky  thing  to  tow  unless  loaded  in  the  stern  or  rigged 
with  a  ring  low  down  on  the  stem,  or  with  a  "  bridle," 
as  shown  in  one  of  the  pictures.  When  rigged  this  way 
it  will  tow  in  quite  a  rough  sea  or  wind  without  tipping 
over. 

Passing  through  the  long  paradoxical  crooked  "  Straits," 

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A  Cruise  on  Lake  Rossignol 

just  below  the  Hopper,  we  made  for  Indian  Gardens, 
some  sixteen  miles  from  the  camp,  watching  the  shores 
for  moose,  the  water  for  rocks,  and  the  sky  for  ducks. 
We  located  one  sunken  rock  without  apparently  doing  it 
any  damage,  and  one  flying  duck  with  quite  opposite 
results.  But  we  saw  no  moose. 

A  lapstreak  shallow-draught  dory  with  ample  propeller 
protection  is  certainly  the  right  combination  for  rocky 
streams  and  lake-cruising.  In  the  Straits  we  passed 
what  Joe  called  the  "  Old  Sow,"  a  big  boulder  with  a 
protuberance  on  its  end  shaped  like  a  pig's  nose.  Ken 
took  the  canoe  and  investigated  it  at  close  quarters  while 
we  stopped  the  boat  and  took  its  picture.  Erosion,  ice, 
and  frost  are  gradually  disintegrating  "  Old  Sow,"  and 
Joe  observed  that  "  she  was  twice  as  fat  "  when  he  drove 
logs  down  this  channel  "  forty  year  ago  " ! 

Passing  through  Second  and  First  Lakes  (all  part  of 
Lake  Rossignol),  we  dropped  our  hook  just  above  the 
dam  at  beautiful  Indian  Gardens.  Great  storied  oaks 
shade  the  dam  and  foaming  river  below.  Beneath  these 
same  trees  where  we  lunched  that  day  lie  the  bones  of 
many  a  Micmac  warrior.  Weird  tales  have  been  handed 
down  the  years  of  the  feasts,  fights,  and  frolics  of  the 
ancient  race,  so  few  of  whom  have  survived  in  purity  of 
blood  the  white  man's  civilizing  but  devastating  influence. 
Yet  the  old  oaks  still  nod  to  each  other  in  the  breeze  or 
bend  before  the  gale,  and  shade  and  shelter  the  just  as 
the  unjust,  while  beneath  the  greensward,  buried  in 
years  and  dust,  is  the  Red  Man's  intimate  history,  never 
to  be  truly  divulged  until  the  day  when  the  oaks  can 
talk,  or  the  trumpet  blows  a  general  muster  of  souls  and 
men. 

Ken  carried  the  canoe  below  the  dam,  but  we  found 
that  trouting  from  the  bank  was  easy,  so  did  not  launch 
her.  As  evening  was  drawing  near  and  the  weather 

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was  warm  and  bright,  we  could  not  resist  the  thought 
of  a  cruise  back  to  camp  instead  of  tenting  out,  so  all 
hands  shipped  in  the  canoe,  and  paddled  out  to  the 
motor-boat  and  clambered  aboard. 

The  little  Gray  hummed  her  accustomed  well-balanced 
tune,  and  we  sped  towards  the  setting  sun.  The  colours 
on  the  woods  and  waters  were  marvellous.  Who  ever 
described  a  beautiful  sunset  adequately  ?  We  had  one 
that  night,  and  the  glory  of  it  is  past  telling. 

We  reached  camp  at  dark,  and  as  we  sat  by  the  big 
fireplace  in  the  glow  of  the  sputtering  birch  logs,  we  all 
felt  as  though  we  had  had  a  joy-  and  sun-drenched  day. 
We  did  not  even  feel  guilty  because  we  had  side-stepped 
the  canvas  for  the  log-house,  and  boat-cushions  on  hard 
ground  for  spring-cots. 

There  were  also  the  unknown  adventures  of  to-morrow 
to  guess  and  conjecture  about.  The  big  lake  was  not 
always  smooth  and  the  big  moose  not  always  shy.  Some- 
times, also,  the  little  engine  acted  bad  in  a  pinch. 

SECOND  DAY. 

Joe  suffered  from  lack  of  circulation  in  his  pedal 
extremities,  brought  on  by  an  unexpected  attack  of  his 
old  bete  noire,  tic  douloureux,  so  he  declined  to  go  with 
us  on  the  second  day  of  our  cruise. 

The  weather  was  cold  and  windy,  but  clear.  We 
loaded  up  the  canoe  with  grub,  tents,  blankets,  plenty 
of  extra  clothing,  guns,  etc.,  and  all  hands  paddled  out 
to  the  motor-boat,  which  was  tugging  at  her  moorings. 
It  was  "  some  "  load  for  a  seventeen-foot  canoe,  but  there 
being  no  sea  in  the  protected  cove  where  she  rode,  we 
made  it  nicely.  We  headed  for  the  big  lake  with  the 
intention  of  steering  north-west  to  a  special  "  calling  " 
and  hunting  ground  on  the  western  shore  of  the  lake. 

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A  Cruise  on  Lake  Rossignol 

The  sea  was  wicked  when  we  rounded  Wildcat  Point. 
While  I  stood  up  on  the  after  deck  to  try  to  get  a  picture 
of  the  flying  spray,  the  canoe  snapped  her  painter,  and 
unnoticed  by  us,  made  for  the  rocky  windward  shore  of 
Bear  Island,  right  under  our  lee.  I  had  visions  of  the 
loss  of  an  expensive  canoe,  but  the  gods  that  fight  for 
sailors  and  hunters  won  out.  The  light  craft  slipped  into 
a  little  protected  cove  and  grounded.  To  recover  her 
we  did  not  dare  follow  through  the  breakers  and  rocks, 
so  ran  around  to  the  lee  side  of  the  island,  where  Ken, 
accompanied  by  the  ever-present  Spot,  landed  and 
walked  across  the  island  and  salvaged  the  undamaged 
craft.  He  navigated  through  the  flowage  and  brought 
her  safely  to  the  power  boat.  Then,  just  to  show  us 
what  a  canoe  could  stand  in  a  heavy  wind  and  sea,  he 
paddled  right  out  around  the  end  of  Bear  Island,  while 
I  stood  on  some  rocks  and  took  a  picture  of  the  perform- 
ance. He  paddled  against  the  sea,  then  turned  her 
around  in  the  trough  and  brought  her  back  again — all 
without  shipping  a  drop  of  water.  But — it  was  "  no  place 
for  a  minister's  son,"  at  that ! 

Ken  and  the  Missus  sailed  by  in  the  power  boat,  and 
again  the  camera  clicked.  They  then  came  about,  and 
rounding  into  the  lee,  nosed  into  the  shore  so  that  I  could 
climb  aboard.  These  flat-bottomed  dories  are  great  for 
this  sort  of  work. 

Once  more  we  headed  for  the  western  shore.  It  was 
blowing  a  gale,  and  the  lake  was  a  mass  of  white  foam. 
Right  out  in  the  middle  of  the  lake  the  engine  stopped. 
No  gas  was  getting  to  the  carburettor.  Investigation 
disclosed  the  fact  that  the  sediment  had  completely 
clogged  the  strainer  in  the  tank's  outlet.  In  a  few 
minutes  Ken  had  cleaned  and  replaced  it.  The  engine 
kicked  off  as  nonchalantly  as  ever.  However,  it  was 
better  to  have  the  dirt  caught  right  where  it  was  than 

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With  Gun  £r>  Rod  in  Canada 


to  have  it  clog  the  carburettor.  It  puzzled  us  to  tell 
where  the  dirt  came  from,  as  every  drop  of  gas  going  into 
that  tank  was  strained  on  the  way  in.  The  tank  was  made 
of  galvanized  iron  and  soldered.  I  believe  that  the 
sediment  must  have  flaked  off  from  the  inside  of  the  tank, 
either  through  vibration  or  the  action  of  the  gas.  A 
pressed  metal  seamless  cylindrical  tank  is  the  only  safe 
gas  reservoir  to  use. 

Once  in  the  lee  of  the  shore  we  ran  into  a  wooded  cove 
and  put  up  our  tent  for  the  night.  Noah  must  have 
dumped  all  of  his  ballast  on  that  shore,  for  it  was  so  rocky 
that  we  could  not  drive  a  tent-peg,  but  had  to  use  rocks 
to  weight  down  our  canvas.  Boat  cushions  and  the 
canvas  boat-cover  made  a  good  mattress  and  ground- 
cloth.  With  blankets  and  a  big  fire  we  soon  had  as  cosy 
a  home  as  one  could  desire.  A  tent  certainly  is  more 
comfortable  than  a  stuffy  boat-cabin. 

It  was  only  3  p.m.  when  our  preparations  for  the 
night  were  completed,  so  Ken  and  I  decided  to  take  a 
"  cruise  "  through  the  woods  and  barrens  in  search  of 
big  game.  The  wind  was  off-shore  and  blowing  hard, 
and  we  had  a  fine  chance  to  "  still-hunt  "  to  windward 
without  our  quarry  either  hearing  or  scenting  us.  We 
covered  about  three  miles,  and  saw  no  fresh  tracks  or 
signs  of  where  the  animals  had  been  browsing  on  the 
young  brush.  We  decided  to  "  beat  it  "  down  the  wind 
for  the  tent.  I  wear  a  radio-compass  pinned  to  my 
hunting-shirt,  so  found  no  difficulty  in  locating  our 
camp.  I  find  that  a  compass  carried  this  way  in  a  small 
boat  is  more  convenient  than  using  the  regular  ship's 
compass,  as  it  is  steadier  and  less  apt  to  be  affected  by 
the  magneto  or  engine,  and  you  can  read  it  without 
binnacle  lights. 

On  our  arrival  at  the  tent  we  found  the  Missus  and 
Spot  warm  but  lonesome.  She  had  a  shotgun  as  company 

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A  Cruise  on  Lake  Rossignol 

also,  and  woe  to  any  man  or  beast  that  had  taken  any 
liberties  around  that  camp.  Not  that  she  is  very  expert 
with  a  gun,  but  a  scared  woman  generally  pulls  the  trigger 
first  and  makes  inquiries  later  !  We  had  supper  and 
turned  in. 

It  was  cold  towards  morning,  but  a  replenished  fire 
soon  made  everyone  cheerful.  A  hard  frost  froze  up  the 
still-water  coves  in  the  night,  and  there  was  too  much 
wind  for  moose  "  calling,"  so  we  had  hot  coffee,  pancakes, 
bacon,  eggs,  moose-steak,  toast,  prunes,  oranges,  bananas, 
etc.,  for  breakfast,  after  which  light  repast  we  struck 
our  tent,  shipped  our  dunnage,  and  cleared  for  the 
Kejimkujik  River. 

THIRD  DAY. 

It  was  a  fine  morning  with  a  light  west  wind  and  clear. 
We  rounded  Wildcat  Point,  and  ran  up  and  into  the  rocky 
swift  water  of  the  stream,  navigating  successfully  the 
rapids  until  rocks  and  shoals  barred  further  progress. 
There  is  no  more  exciting  sport  in  the  world  than  running 
a  motor-boat,  properly  fitted  for  that  kind  of  work,  up 
a  rapids  or  shooting  down  over  them.  We  touched 
several  rocks,  but  our  well-shod  keel  and  protected 
propeller  and  outboard  rudder  saved  us  from  disaster. 
We  shifted  our  live  ballast  forward  so  that  the  sixteen- 
inch  wheel  was  barely  submerged,  and  the  boat  then 
drew  about  eighteen  inches  of  water.  It  is  remarkable 
what  a  twenty-one-foot  dory  with  a  /-horse-power  engine 
can  do  in  the  way  of  fighting  a  swift  current,  even  under 
such  adverse  conditions  of  trim. 

With  the  dory's  bow  almost  against  a  ledge  athwart 
our  course,  we  reversed  and  dropped  our  hook  in  the 
stream.  Then  Ken  and  I  took  the  canoe  and  rifles,  and 
poled  and  paddled  up  the  rushing  river  to  hunt  and  fish 

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With  Gun  £r>  Rod  in  Canada 


for  the  rest  of  the  day.  We  were  just  up  over  the  next 
falls,  when  the  imploring  voices  of  the  Missus  and  Spot 
from  the  boat  induced  us  to  return.  We  at  last  decided 
to  take  the  former,  but  to  relegate  the  latter  to  position 
of  watchman,  and  left  him  howling  his  spotted  head  off 
at  being  deserted. 

As  we  fought  the  swift  falls  with  paddle  and  pole, 
we  hardly  had  time  to  agree  with  the  Missus  that  the 
scenery  was  "  remarkably  exquisite,"  or  exclamations 
to  that  effect.  She  played  with  an  occasional  festive 
fish,  while  we  sweated  and  watched  the  shores  for  big 
horns.  Two  miles  of  this  cruising  brought  the  clock 
around  to  rest  and  lunch  time.  We  landed  at  Arthur's 
Ledges  for  that  purpose. 

A  lunch  in  the  woods  on  the  bank  of  a  colourful  stream 
on  a  snappy  October  day  is  something  to  live  for,  especially 
after  a  hard  paddle  up-river.  As  no  game  (outside  of 
a  few  "  chickens  ")  showed  up,  after  lunch  we  "  shot  " 
the  rapids  and  had  a  delightful  coast  downstream  to  the 
boat. 

We  found  Spot  on  the  job  and  shiveringly  glad  to  see  us. 

On  account  of  the  narrow  stream  and  being  literally 
hemmed  in  with  rocks,  we  decided  not  to  try  to  turn  the 
motor-boat  around,  but  to  drop  her  downstream,  stern 
first — one  man  fending  her  off  the  ledges  with  the  long 
pike-pole,  and  the  other  in  the  bow  with  a  boat-hook 
for  the  purpose  of  keeping  her  nose  upstream  and  straight 
with  the  current.  Our  plan  worked  out,  and  we  navi- 
gated stern  first  in  this  fashion  for  half  a  mile  and  touched 
but  one  rock  lightly  on  our  way  to  deeper  waters.  Once 
safely  in  the  channel  we  gave  her  the  power,  and  sailed 
to  the  home  camp  without  further  adventure. 

This  morning  Spot  went  cruising  all  by  himself.  Ken 
had  started  to  get  into  the  canoe,  and  consequently  had 
pushed  her  off  until  her  bow  rested  gently  on  the  bank. 

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A  Cruise  on  Lake  Rossignol 

Spot,  not  wishing  to  be  left  out  of  anything,  jumped 
in  as  Ken  turned  to  pick  up  the  paddle.  The  momentum 
of  the  dog's  body  shot  the  light  craft  out  into  the  water, 
and  before  anyone  realized  what  happened,  Spot  was 
headed  for  the  other  side  of  the  lake  with  a  fair  wind. 
I  snapped  a  handy  Kodak  at  the  daring  navigator.  He 
looked  much  interested  and  pleased  over  his  achievement. 
Ken  went  to  the  rescue. 

We  have  been  eating  moose  meat  every  meal. 
The  Missus  seems  to  hanker  for  pdte  de  foies  gras  and 
oysters. 

FOURTH  DAY. 

The  wind  hauled  around  to  the  east  during  the  night, 
and  a  cold  rain  beat  an  insistent  reveille  on  the  old  cabin 
roof  and  windows.  Ken  and  I  donned  oilskins  and 
sauntered  down  to  the  boat,  thanking  our  stars  that  we 
were  so  situated  that  we  could  spend  the  time  during 
such  weather  in  a  spacious  cabin  before  a  big  open  fire 
rather  than  huddled  in  the  gaseous  cuddy  of  the  motor- 
boat.  We  opened  up  the  engine-house,  and  found 
everything  snug  and  dry  therein;  tightened  up  a  few  nuts 
and  connections;  gave  the  engine  a  whirl  just  to  see  if 
her  spark  was  all  right;  battened  down,  and  returned  to 
the  house,  perfectly  contented  to  leave  the  old  dory 
nodding  to  every  new  squall  as  it  came  along. 

After  lunch  we  got  sort  of  itchy  for  the  smell  of  gasolene 
and  the  wet  woods,  so,  armed  with  rifles,  compasses,  and 
a  couple  of  sandwiches,  we  climbed  aboard,  cast  off,  and 
bucked  the  sea  and  wind  down  into  North-east  Bay — 
a  distance  of  three  miles.  We  landed  in  a  fine  moose 
country.  It  was  a  good  day  for  "  creeping,"  as  the 
leaves  were  soft  and  wet,  and  the  rain  prevented  our 
scent  from  being  carried  afar.  We  travelled  back  a  mile 

217 


With  Gun  £P  Rod  in  Canada 


and  a  half,  and  struck  fresh  tracks.  Ken  circled  around 
to  the  windward  of  a  big  swamp,  while  I  stayed  to  lee- 
ward watching  for  any  animal  that  might  break  cover 
at  Ken's  approach.  In  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
there  was  a  crash  in  the  bushes,  and  a  cow  with  her  calf 
lumbered  by  within  a  few  yards  of  me.  I  lowered  the 
too  eager  rifle  with  a  sigh  of  disappointment.  A  minute 
or  two  later  a  big  bull  grunted  about  a  hundred  and  fifty 
yards  to  my  left,  but  trotted  safely  out  of  the  danger  zone 
without  my  catching  sight  of  him.  Ken  soon  showed  up 
wet,  tired,  and  winded.  It  was  pouring  rain,  so  we 
built  a  big  fire,  which  we  started  with  birch-bark,  boiled 
the  "  kittle,"  made  tea,  and  had  a  snack.  We  got  back  to 
the  dory  at  dark  and  started  for  the  home  landing. 

The  channel  we  had  to  follow  was  crooked  and  very 
rocky.  It  was  a  case  of  watching  the  compass  and  the 
skyline  in  order  to  keep  our  course  without  accident. 
Right  here  it  would  be  well  to  advise  those  who  have  not 
cruised  much  on  inland  waters  to  observe  closely  the  shape 
of  the  skyline,  as  in  the  dark  it  is  often  the  only  guidance 
one  has  to  steer  by. 

On  the  way  home  the  engine  slowed  down  and  stopped. 
After  this  performance  was  repeated  several  times,  we 
found  that  the  needle-valve  on  the  carburettor  was  open 
less  than  half  a  turn.  When  it  was  opened  one  and  a 
quarter  turns  the  engine  ran  perfectly.  But  in  a  short 
time  she  stopped  again.  With  the  aid  of  our  flash-light  we 
discovered  that  the  little  spring  holding  the  valve  in  place 
had  in  some  manner  become  bent  back  from  the  edge 
of  the  needle-valve  head,  and  the  vibration  of  the  engine 
caused  the  needle-valve  to  gradually  screw  down  till  it 
shut  aS  the  gas.  It  was  only  a  second's  work  to  fix  it 
after  we  discovered  the  cause.  This  goes  to  illustrate 
one  of  the  thousand  stray  things  that  can  go  wrong  with 
a  marine  engine.  Undoubtedly  the  spring  had  been  hit 

218 


A  Cruise  on  Lake  Rossignol 

by  the  careless  handling  of  a  wrench,  or  had  been  caught 
by  the  sleeve  of  a  sweater  and  bent  out  of  place.  We 
swept  in  among  the  rocks  of  the  Narrows  without  scraping 
off  any  paint. 

And  thus  ended  the  fourth  day. 

FIFTH  DAY. 

It  rained  all  day,  so  we  stayed  in  the  house,  and  cooked, 
rested,  and  wrote. 

SIXTH  DAY. 

We  were  just  getting  ready  for  a  two-  or  three-day 
trip  into  the  south  end  of  Lake  Rossignol,  when  a  party 
of  three  men  and  two  women  came  along,  very  anxious 
to  be  towed  down  through  the  chain  of  lakes,  a  matter 
of  twelve  miles,  to  a  point  where  they  wished  to  camp 
out  and  hunt.  Ken  undertook  this  job.  It  gave  me 
an  opportunity  to  stay  home  and  saw  wood,  and  perform 
other  necessary  chores  around  camp.  The  motor-boat 
was  a  pretty  sight  towing  off  three  canoes,  tandem. 
Each  canoe  was  rigged  with  a  "  bridle,"  as  described 
heretofore.  As  this  method  of  towing  a  canoe  is,  I  believe, 
original  with  the  writer,  it  gave  him  great  satisfaction 
to  see  it  so  generally  adopted  in  the  Rossignol  district. 
Ken  returned  in  about  three  hours.  But  it  was  then  too 
late  to  do  more  than  prepare  for  a  start  the  next  morning. 
A  fine  buck  deer  head  was  brought  in  this  day  by  some 
other  cruisers  and  several  fine  moose  heads.  The  weather 
remained  wet  and  cloudy. 

SEVENTH  DAY. 

As  Old  Joe,  our  original  guide,  was  unavailable  for 
further  service,  Pat  Lacey,  a  middle-aged  hunter  and 
trapper  of  great  fame,  was  persuaded  to  accompany  us 

219 


With  Gun  ftp  Rod  in  Canada 


on  the  final  spurt  for  a  big  set  of  horns.  The  Missus 
was  unfortunately  enrhumee,  and  as  this  seemed  to 
stimulate  her  mind  towards  making  fine  mince-meat 
and  other  delicacies  that  do  not  ordinarily  go  with  a 
moose-hunting  cruise,  we  were  very  solicitous  about  her 
keeping  indoors  and  curing  the  cold  while  increasing  the 
larder.  It  was  our  intention  to  start  from  now  on  early 
each  morning,  and  after  navigating  as  far  as  we  could 
up  some  one  of  the  streams  in  the  motor-boat,  to 
take  the  canoe  and  go  to  other  connecting  lakes,  hunt, 
and  return  to  the  main  camp  each  night.  Therefore, 
we  had  no  compunction  about  leaving  the  Missus 
alone. 

So  this  seventh  morning  we  left  with  a  hearty  lunch  for 
three  men  and  no  blankets.  The  wind  was  blowing  from 
the  north-east.  At  the  peep  o'  day  we  nosed  our  way 
out  of  Lowe's  Lake  into  the  big  lop  of  Rossignol.  We 
had  a  fair  wind,  and  were  not  aware  that  it  was  getting 
really  rough  until  we  approached  the  mouth  of  the  Shel- 
burne  River,  six  miles  from  home.  To  make  the  entrance, 
one  has  to  pass  between  two  boulders  hardly  twenty-five 
feet  apart,  and  fifty  feet  beyond  this,  right  in  the  centre 
of  the  channel,  is  another  chunk  of  granite  barely  awash, 
that  even  in  calm  weather  has  to  be  circumnavigated 
with  a  quick  twist  of  the  tiller.  The  heavy  current 
coming  out  of  the  Shelburne  River,  meeting  a  dirty  sea 
kicked  up  by  a  rising  north-east  gale,  made  a  smother  of 
foam  and  a  cross,  choppy  sea.  The  swells  were  breaking 
clear  over  the  port  and  starboard  rocks  that  mark  the 
channel.  I  did  not  realize  what  was  ahead  of  us  until 
within  two  hundred  yards  of  the  place.  I  abandoned 
the  wheel  for  the  quickly  shipped  tiller,  stood  up,  and 
prepared  to  "  put  her  over  the  jumps."  Any  navigator 
of  a  small  boat  knows  how  unmanageable  a  craft  feels 
when  caught  just  right  on  the  crest  of  a  following  wave 

220 


A  Cruise  on  Lake  Rossignol 

and  is  swept  forward  at  an  ever-accelerating  speed,  with 
the  water  running  so  fast  under  him  that  he  apparently 
loses  steerage  way.  We  went  fairly  between  the  two 
channel  rocks  on  the  crest  of  a  comber.  The  next  thing 
I  knew  the  big  boulder  in  the  centre  of  the  channel 
seemed  to  be  right  under  our  bows.  I  had  the  tiller 
shoved  hard  over  to  the  starboard  side,  and  only  when  a 
wreck  appeared  inevitable  did  the  bow  swing  to  port. 
We  missed  that  boulder  by  inches.  A  few  seconds  more 
and  we  were  chugging  sturdily  up  the  tortuous  channel 
bucking  the  current.  We  swung  into  a  calm  cove  behind 
a  heavily  wooded  point. 

The  wind  was  ripping  through  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
which,  combined  with  the  surf  and  the  rolling  and 
shifting  boulders  on  the  lake's  edge,  made  a  deafening 
uproar.  The  rain  came  down  in  torrents.  But,  as  Pat 
said,  it  was  a  great  day  for  still-hunting,  since  the  moose 
could  not  hear  us;  so  we  doffed  our  oilskins,  buckled  on 
our  cartridge-belts,  and  started  through  the  woods. 
The  swamps  were  badly  flooded,  but  our  knee-high  oiled 
larrigans,  or  shoe-packs,  kept  out  the  water.  Sweaters 
and  mackinaw  coats  and  broad-brimmed  felt  hats  will 
shed  water  for  hours  without  soaking  through.  Pat 
took  us  by  one  of  his  bear-traps,  in  which  we  found  a  very 
much  alive  and  snarling  wild-cat,  caught  by  the  two  hind- 
feet.  It  was  too  dark  under  the  trees  to  get  a  picture. 
A  clout  in  the  head  finished  it,  and  we  hung  it  on  a  tree 
against  our  return  that  night.  Half  an  hour  later  we 
struck  fresh  "  brouse  "  where  moose  had  been  feeding, 
and  we  sneaked  along  unmindful  of  rain  or  wind.  Pat 
was  ahead,  followed  by  the  writer,  then  Ken. 

"  There's  a  moose  !"  suddenly  exclaimed  Pat. 

Sure  enough,  through  the  birches  hardly  fifty  yards 
away,  was  a  big  cow  pulling  down  a  maple  limb  and  eating 
the  tender  shoots.  If  I  had  been  as  hungry  then  as  I 

221 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

was  going  to  be  before  night,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
that  big  fat  animal  would  have  received  a  30-40  bullet 
in  a  very  tender  spot.  Instead,  we  stood  and  watched 
her  till  Pat  clapped  his  hands.  She  whirled  and 
melted  into  the  underbrush  as  quickly  and  quietly  as  a 
ghost. 

Another  hour  and  a  half's  tramping  through  the  thick 
"  hard-axe  "  thoroughly  wetted  our  nether  limbs,  while 
the  rain  gradually  soaked  our  clothing  until  it  was  so  heavy 
we  could  hardly  stagger  under  the  load.  We  came  to  a 
narrow  neck  of  land  between  two  lakes,  and  here  we 
built  a  roaring  fire  in  the  lee  of  a  rock,  partly  dried  our- 
selves, and  ate  our  lunch.  Ken  and  I  watched  the  narrow 
stretch  of  land,  while  Pat  worked  through  the  brush  on 
the  lee  side  and  then  came  down  to  windward,  but  no 
moose  showed  up.  Although  the  wind  and  rain  were 
increasing  in  force,  we  decided  to  swing  around  by  the 
head  of  the  Fifth  Lake  and  take  in  two  more  of  Pat's 
bear-traps.  We  were  much  interested  in  seeing  the 
carcass  of  a  large  black  bear  which  Pat  had  caught  and 
skinned  the  week  before.  We  also  picked  up  the  skull 
and  horns  of  a  small  bull  which  had  evidently  been 
wounded  and  died  last  year.  The  bears  had  picked  his 
bones  clean. 

It  was  three  o'clock  when  we  got  back  to  the  tree 
where  we  had  left  the  wild-cat,  and  half-past  when  we 
reached  the  boat.  By  this  time  I  was  so  wet,  for  the 
water  had  run  down  inside  my  larrigans,  and  so  tired  that 
I  could  hardly  lift  one  water-logged  foot  after  another. 
Pat  seemed  to  skip  right  along  over  the  top  of  the  wet 
bog,  while  I  was  sinking  up  to  the  hock-joints  at  every 
step.  Ken,  who  is  six  feet  tall  and  extra  long-legged, 
stepped  through  the  wet  swamps  and  over  the  rough 
ground  as  nonchalantly  as  a  blue  heron.  Great  trees 
had  been  uprooted  by  the  wind,  and  had  fallen  across 

222 


A  Cruise  on  Lake  Rossignol 

the  trail.  One  massive  hemlock  was  half  uprooted  and 
canted  across  the  boat.  Its  top  had  luckily  lodged  in  an 
adjacent  tree.  The  roar  of  the  surf  and  wind  was  terrify- 
ing. Pat  said  it  would  be  impossible  for  a  boat  to  get  out 
of  the  mouth  of  the  Shelburne  River  and  face  it  without 
swamping.  We  carried  a  little  waterproof  tent  in  the 
motor-boat  for  emergencies.  As  we  were  too  wet  and 
miserable  to  have  courage  to  face  the  bitter  cold  and  storm 
of  the  big  lake,  we  pitched  the  tent  in  the  lee  of  a  knoll, 
built  up  a  tremendous  fire,  and  in  spite  of  swirling  smoke 
and  sparks,  made  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  possible. 
Our  strenuous  exercise  had  sharpened  normally  good 
appetites,  but  with  no  food  left  and  no  blankets,  it  looked 
a  little  as  though  we  might  be  a  trifle  bored  before 
morning !  We  could  have  abandoned  our  boat,  used  a 
canoe  for  crossing  the  Shelburne  River,  and  by  walking 
twelve  miles  and  fording  or  swimming  the  Kejimkujik 
River,  reached  home  that  night.  But  I  do  not  think  that 
any  of  us  relished  the  trip. 

A  little  before  dark  I  persuaded  my  companions  to 
try  to  get  across  the  lake  in  the  dory.  We  shipped  all 
hands  and  the  wild-cat,  and  slid  down  the  current  under 
full  speed.  We  rounded  the  granite  boulder  that  had 
nearly  wrecked  us  on  the  way  in,  and  fairly  smashed  our 
way  out  through  a  mountainous,  breaking  surf.  The 
spray  from  the  first  wave  came  aft  in  a  blinding  sheet 
and  struck  me  in  the  face  like  a  load  of  buck-shot,  nearly 
smothering  me.  The  boat  stopped,  staggered,  and  then 
dived  into  the  second.  By  this  time  I  had  my  eyes  open, 
and  succeeded  in  ducking  the  next  charge  of  icy  water. 
The  staunch  little  dory  took  each  succeeding  wave  in 
better  shape,  and  although  the  spray  was  suffocating  at 
times,  she  fought  her  way  out  from  the  shore  and  rocks 
into  deep  water.  Strange  to  say,  she  did  not  ship  any 
green  water,  but  always  seemed  to  shoulder  her  way 

223 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

above  the  breaking  crest.  It  was  almost  dark  when  we 
made  the  lee  of  a  tiny  wooded  island,  one  mile  from  the 
Shelburne  River.  The  canoe  which  we  had  in  tow  was 
half  full  of  water.  As  Pat  described  it: 

"The  wind  just  picked  up  the  water  in  great  chunks 
a  foot  thick  and  dumped  it  right  down  into  that  little 
kwedun  !"  ("  kwedun  "  is  Micmac  for  "  canoe  "). 

We  hove  over  the  anchor  on  the  lee  of  the  island  and 
pulled  the  canoe  up  alongside,  dumped  the  water  out  of 
her,  and  swung  her  aboard.  It  was  here  that  we  held  a 
consultation,  and  finally  decided  not  to  attempt  to  go 
out  through  the  reefs  in  the  gathering  dusk,  but,  if  possible, 
to  take  the  seas  quartering  in  a  south-easterly  direction 
and  make  for  Smart's  Island,  half  a  mile  away,  where 
there  was  a  sporting-camp  and  presumably  food,  although 
the  owner  was  away.  I  do  not  think  that  any  of  us  will 
forget  that  half-mile  of  black-and-white  water.  The 
wind  was  blowing  like  a  blast  straight  out  of  the  Borean 
Polar  factory.  The  white  foam  was  flying  through  the 
air  like  snow.  It  was  raining  torrents,  not  down  but 
straight  across  our  bows.  It  was  impossible  to  keep  the 
boat's  head  quartering  to  the  sea.  In  spite  of  all  that  we 
could  do  with  steering-oar  and  rudder,  she  went  across 
the  intervening  water  between  the  two  islands  with  her 
head  pointed  a  little  away  from  the  gale,  practically  in 
the  trough,  with  the  waves  slightly  quartering  aft.  The 
wind  was  blowing  so  hard  that  instead  of  making  our 
island,  we  made  another  far  to  leeward.  Once  in  the  lee 
of  this,  I  swung  the  boat's  head  hard  to  port,  rounded 
the  meagre  shelter,  caught  the  big  seas  square  ahead,  and 
struck  a  reef.  It  was  now  pitch  dark.  The  next  sea 
lifted  us  clear.  The  engine  did  not  stop  and  the  pro- 
tected propeller  kept  spinning.  Three  times  we  came 
down  on  the  reef,  and  three  times  the  waves  lifted  us 
clear.  But  each  time  the  boat  gained  and  finally  shot 

224 


A  Cruise  on  Lake  Rossignol 

into  deep  water.  I  kept  her  headed  just  enough  to  star- 
board so  that  we  were  making  for  our  objective,  and  at 
the  same  time  headed  as  nearly  as  possible  into  the 
wickedest,  meanest,  straight-up-and-down,  curling  lop 
that  it  was  ever  my  misfortune  to  encounter  in  any  boat 
or  in  any  water.  And  I  have  been  sailing  since  I  was 
a  kid. 

We  made  the  lee  of  Smart's  Island,  and  tied  up  to  an 
oak-tree  in  a  cove  on  the  shore.  There  we  stayed  for 
two  days  and  two  nights  in  the  most  tremendous  uproar 
of  the  elements  that  has  been  known  hereabouts  in  fifty 
years.  Luckily  we  found  a  little  flour  in  the  cabin  and 
plenty  of  dry  wood.  If  ever  three  marooned  or  ship- 
wrecked sailors  were  glad  to  see  fire  and  food,  we 
were  it ! 

As  there  was  no  meat  in  the  camp,  the  next  morning 
I  went  hunting  to  look  for  a  stray  partridge  or  rabbit 
on  the  island.  Luckily  I  discovered  a  nice  fat  porcupine 
petulantly  shinning  a  hemlock.  A  bullet  in  the  back  of 
the  head  brought  him  to  the  ground,  and  the  hunting- 
knife,  carefully  manipulated,  soon  separated  his  fat 
carcass  from  his  prickly  armour.  He  furnished  a  stew, 
and  the  liver  was  a  palatable  broil.  Although  Pat  was 
hungry  for  meat,  he  was  a  good  Catholic.  It  being 
Friday,  he  crossed  himself  and  desisted.  Some  people 
would  desist  whether  the  Pope  so  decreed  or  otherwise. 
We  have  a  good  receipt  for  a  planked  porcupine.  If 
anyone  would  like  to  have  it,  write  me  in  care  of  the 
Publisher,  and  I  shall  be  pleased  to  oblige. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  the  wind  swung  more 
to  the  north,  though  still  blowing  a  gale,  and  the  sun 
shone  fitfully  through  black,  driving  clouds.  The 
change  in  wind  gave  us  a  little  more  of  a  lee  from  the 
western  shore,  so  we  nosed  that  sturdy  little  Seabright 
dory  out  into  the  smother.  As  our  food  had  given  out, 

225  p 


With  Gun     ?  Rod  in  Canada 


we  had  to  go.  In  the  daylight  we  could  see  the  breaking 
rocks  and  reef,  and  were  able  to  navigate  out  into  the  big 
water.  Then  we  had  a  peculiar  accident.  The  heavy 
pounding  of  the  bow  of  the  boat  as  she  came  down  off 
the  waves  actually  drove  the  gas  tank,  which  still  con- 
tained twelve  gallons  of  gas,  down  through  the  frame- 
work by  which  it  was  supported.  This  broke  the  connect- 
ing pipe  leading  to  the  deck-plate  short  off  at  the  tank, 
and  the  gasolene  began  to  spurt  from  the  bow  of  the  boat 
like  an  intermittent  fountain.  We  carried  a  hundred 
feet  of  strong  three-quarter-inch  anchor  rope  and  a 
heavy  mushroom  anchor.  In  another  minute  we  were 
swinging  jauntily  over  the  big  seas,  firmly  fast  to  the 
bottom  of  the  lake.  It  took  us  hardly  ten  minutes  to 
rebrace  the  tank,  plug  the  hole,  and  make  a  resolution 
about  the  proper  way  to  install  gasolene  tanks. 

We  made  home  safely,  and  found  the  Missus  down  to 
her  last  stick  of  wood,  with  her  bed  moved  into  the  kitchen 
and  the  dog  and  the  cat  doing  all  the  worrying.  When 
I  asked  her  if  she  were  frightened  or  lonesome,  she  said: 
"  Why,  no  !  Did  you  get  a  moose  ?"  And  seemed  much 
disappointed  that  we  had  met  with  only  a  wild-cat,  a 
pair  of  bleached  moose  horns,  and  wet  hides  !  After 
our  various  versions  of  the  experiences  were  related,  she 
told  us  that  the  wind  squalls  had  been  so  fierce  that  they 
had  blown  the  ashes  and  coals  out  of  the  fireplace  into 
the  room,  and  she  had  found  it  necessary  to  put  out  the 
fire  with  buckets  of  water.  She  "  holed  in  "  out  in 
the  kitchen  with  its  conventional  and  better  behaved 
range. 

In  sizing  up  her  experiences  and  ours,  I  do  not  know 
but  what  it  was  perhaps  more  of  an  adventure  for  a  city- 
bred  woman  to  stay  all  alone  in  a  log  cabin,  twelve  miles 
from  a  settlement,  during  a  veritable  tornado,  with  the 
wood-pile  getting  low  and  the  cold  more  intense,  and  not 

226 


A  Cruise  on  Lake  Rossignol 

knowing  whether  her  menfolk  were  going  to  show  up  or 
not,  than  it  was  for  three  men,  inured  to  hardships,  wild 
winds  and  waters,  to  have  suffered  a  little  from  empty 
bellies  and  wet  hides. 

Next  year  we  will  try  it  again. 


227 


The  Kejimkujik  Monster 

Afar  back  as  1902,  stories  began  to  drift  into  the 
settlement  about  him.  Some  fishermen  claimed 
to  have  seen  him,  and  several  claimed  they  had 
hooked  him,  but  lost  their  fly  and  leader  as  a  result.  Some 
wise  old  fishermen  on  their  first  trip  had  the  temerity 
to  infer  that  it  wasn't  a  trout  at  all,  but  a  mud-turtle 
or  an  enormous  eel.  For  the  next  few  years  accounts 
of  him  were  consistently  sprinkled  through  a  great 
number  of  narratives  told  by  various  peregrinating  fisher- 
men from  all  parts  of  the  world.  Since  all  true  lovers  of 
the  rod  and  reel,  sooner  or  later,  drop  their  fly  in  Nova 
Scotia  trout  streams,  tales  of  the  monster  were  naturally 
spread  from  coast  to  coast.  Talking  one  day  in  Van- 
couver with  the  editor  of  a  sporting  magazine  published 
in  Chicago,  I  heard  again  the  yarn  with  expected  varia- 
tions. This  was  in  the  winter  of  1908.  I  remember 
the  date  well,  as  it  was  the  year  our  camp  was  built  near 
the  mouth  of  the  Kejimkujik  River,  on  Lake  Rossignol. 
The  Chicago  editor's  story  so  impressed  me  that  I  re- 
solved to  make  some  careful  inquiries  of  the  Indians  and 
guides  in  the  Rossignol  district  as  soon  as  we  could  get 
out  to  camp  for  the  spring  fishing. 

Upon  my  arrival  in  Caledonia,  I  asked  Old  Joe  and 
Darce,  Frank,  Tom,  and  others  what  they  knew  about 
it.  They  had  all  had  experiences  with  him  or  had 
guided  "  sports  "  who  had  either  hooked  or  raised  him. 
Although,  generally  speaking,  guides  are  notorious 
fabulists,  these  men  seemed  to  be  perfectly  sincere  in 
their  belief  that  there  was  a  monster  trout  in  the  lower 

228 


The  Kejimkujik  Monster 

waters  of  the  Kejimkujik  River,  ranging  between  Arthur's 
Ledges  and  the  mouth.  From  their  accounts  there  was 
a  perfectly  reasonable  inference  to  be  drawn  that  there 
might  be  a  number  of  "  him." 

There  was  a  peculiar  similarity  about  the  ending  of 
all  these  fish  stories.  It  seems  that  although  the  fish 
had  been  authentically  hooked  a  number  of  times  and 
played  for  some  minutes,  at  the  time  he  took  the  fly  he 
would  never  come  out  of  the  water,  but  only  show  his 
great  black  back  or  broad,  square  tail.  After,  that  he 
would  keep  well  submerged  in  the  deep  pools.  No  city 
fisherman  had  yet  been  equipped  with  sufficiently  strong 
tackle  to  pull  or  "  pump  "  the  fish  enough  to  take  in  any 
line  after  the  first  downstream  rush  of  this  powerful 
outlaw.  He  took  line  sometimes  with  a  rush  and  some- 
times with  slow,  persistent,  tugging  jerks;  then  he  would 
go  into  a  deep  hole,  sound  and  sulk.  Failing  in  the 
attempt  to  dislodge  him,  the  angler,  finding  himself 
hooked  to  the  trout  instead  of  vice  versa,  would  have  the 
canoe  dropped  downstream  so  he  could  take  in  line  and 
prepare  for  another  rush.  After  navigating  as  close 
to  the  chosen  lair  of  the  big  scrapper  as  was  thought 
prudent,  the  fisherman  would  increase  the  strain  on  his 
tackle  to  the  limit,  with  the  object  of  starting  the  fish. 
Finding  no  response  to  these  manoeuvres,  he'd  try  jerking 
and  pulling,  and  end  by  breaking  his  leader  and  losing  it. 
He  might  give  up  the  fight,  slack  his  line,  paddle  right 
into  the  pool,  pulling  in  the  line  hand  over  hand,  only 
to  find  it  securely  wound  around  a  submerged  log  or 
windfall.  Almost  every  story  ended  with  the  leader 
fast  to  a  sunken  log* 

Ma-tee-o,  an  old  Micmac  Indian,  was  sitting  in  front 
of  his  tent  making  pack-baskets  when  we  arrived  at  our 
new  camp  at  Lowe's  Landing  in  the  memorable  spring 
of  1908.  After  partially  getting  our  house  in  order  we 

229 


With  Gun      >  Rod  in  Canada 


wandered  over,  after  supper,  to  sit  with  Ma-tee-o  in 
front  of  his  little  Indian  fire. 

I  asked  him  what  he  knew  about  the  big  fish.  In  the 
usual  contemplative  Indian  way,  he  said  : 

"  Him  there." 

'  Just  where,  Ma-tee-o  ?"  I  ventured. 

"  Sometime  big  eddy  .  .  .  Trout  Rock.  .  .  .  Some- 
time Boom  Rock,  where  water  get  mad."  (He  meant 
where  the  waters  divide  and  run  in  separate  streams  to 
the  mouth  of  the  river.)  "  Mostly  first  big  eddy  .  .  . 
dark  side  .  .  .  below  Arthur's  Ledges." 

"  Do  you  think  there  is  more  than  one  big  fish  in  this 
part  of  the  river  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Not  like  him,"  he  replied,  quickly. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  ?"  again  I  questioned. 

"  Three  .  .  .  four  time,"  said  Ma-tee-o. 

"  Did  you  ever  try  to  catch  him  ?"  I  persisted. 

Old  Ma-tee-o5  s  eyes  twinkled.  "Me  spear  him 
once." 

"  You  speared  him  !"  we  both  exclaimed  together. 
"  How  did  he  get  away  ?" 

Before  answering,  Ma-tee-o  knocked  the  ashes  out  of 
his  pipe,  and  indicating  a  lack  of  both  matches  and 
tobacco  by  feeling  in  all  his  ragged  pockets  for  them,  he 
exercised  the  prerogative  of  the  Indian  race  in  its  dealings 
with  the  intrusive  white  man,  and  accepted  my  tender 
of  both  as  his  just  due.  Ceremoniously  filling  his  pipe 
and  tossing  a  pinch  of  tobacco  over  his  shoulder  to  his 
friend  the  Wind,  he  lit  up  and  courteously  handed  back 
my  sack  of  tobacco.  After  a  few  quiet  puffs,  he  gravely 
proffered  the  pipe  to  the  lady  burdened  with  a  portion 
of  my  (up  to  this  time)  good  name.  Outside  of  a  humor- 
ous twinkle  in  his  eyes,  one  would  have  thought  his 
surprise  at  her  confused  refusal  was  genuine.  Patiently 
waiting  for  Ma-tee-o  to  take  up  the  thread  of  the  tale 

230 


The  Kejimkujik  Monster 

of  his  experience  with  the  big  trout,  I  smoked  and  did 
not  urge  him. 

'*  Wigumi,"  he  muttered,  as  to  himself.  Then, 
"  Adookse: 

"  It  was  this  way,  Camp-builder.  I  was  young  man 
trapping  on  Kejimkujik  River  and  Big  Lake.  Big  and 
strong,  then."  (At  this  time  Ma-tee-o  was  seventy  years 
old,  small  and  wizened.)  "  Plenty  moose  meat,  new 
squaw,  two  .  .  .  three  .  .  .  papoose,  wigwam  on  tenting- 
ground  at  Trout  Rock.  New  ice  come  quick.  Had 
many  steel  traps  set  'long  the  river.  Had  to  chop  'em 
out.  Found  mush-rat  in  trap  .  .  .  big  eddy  .  .  . 
Arthur's  Ledges,  I  tole  you  'bout.  Ice  just  strong 
enough  bear  me  up  and  clear  like  house  glass.  Mush- 
rat  was  drowned,  but  big  fish  under  water  smelling  'im — 
maybe  tryin'  bite  'im.  Made  smash  at  fish  with  axe, 
through  ice.  Missed  him.  By  time  get  back  to  wickiup 
with  hides  and  traps,  tired,  but  still  think  'bout  big  fish. 
After  dark  take  bark  torch  and  fish-spear  in  kwedun,  and 
pole  up-river  in  swift  water,  and  land  on  thin  ice  on  pool 
where  big  trout  live.  The  hole  made  to  chop  out  trap 
had  thin  skin  ice  over  it.  So  make  li'l  hole,  tie  piece 
moose  meat  on  fish-line  with  sinker,  put  it  down  thru 
ice.  Then,  stick  torch  right  'long  side  on  bank.  It 
make  big  blaze.  Wait  with  fish-spear  to  stick  'im.  Wait 
maybe  long  time.  By'm-by  he  come  nosing  'long,  easy, 
careful,  like  fox.  He  meskek  fish.  When  he  close  to 
moose  meat,  near  'nough — wiskoodaga  !  Hard,  so  !" 
He  indicated  his  spearing  motion  by  a  sharp  downward 
thrust  of  the  arm. 

Ma-tee-o  paused.  We  waited  breathlessly.  His  pipe 
had  gone  out,  so  he  borrowed  another  match  and  lit  it. 
The  old  Indian's  dramatic  sense  was  acute.  He  had  been 
engrossed  in  his  tale.  His  sombre  old  eyes  glowed.  As 
he  sat  there  puffing  his  pipe,  he  was  evidently  picturing 

231 


With  Gun  £r>  Rod  in  Canada 


to  himself  the  wonderful  moment  when  his  spear  struck 
true  and  fair  the  back  of  his  monster  trout.  We  knew  it 
was  best  not  to  hurry  the  old  fellow  into  what  was  to  us 
the  important  climax  of  the  tale.  Finally,  exasperated 
at  his  silence,  we  impatiently  urged: 

"  Did  you  get  him,  Ma-tee-o  ?" 

"  Spear  him  all  right,  Camp-builder.  When  try  pull 
him  out  of  hole  in  ice,  couldn't  lift  him.  Too  big." 

Again  he  paused. 

"  Did  he  break  your  spear  ?"  "  Did  he  wiggle  much  ?" 
"  Did  he  get  away  ?"  "  What  did  you  do  then  ?"  were 
the  alternate  exclamatory  questions  of  his  auditors. 
But  Ma-tee-o  couldn't  be  hurried.  After  puffing  some 
more,  exasperatingly,  and  poking  the  fire,  he  closed  the 
matter  up  as  follows: 

"  Pulled  and  pulled  on  spear.  It  won't  come  'way, 
so  take  axe  and  chop  big  hole  in  ice.  Then,  build  nice 
bright  fire  on  bank  so  could  see  plain."  He  repeated  the 
performance  of  pausing  and  teasing  us  at  this  particular 
place. 

"Well?" 

"  Well  ?" 

"  Found  spear  sticking  up  over  barbs  in  oak  log." 

We  breathed  again. 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  miss  him  ?"  we  asked,  after 
we  had  digested  this  last  bit  of  mysterious  information. 

"  No  miss  'im,"  replied  Ma-tee-o.     "  Kespeadooksit." 

And  that  was  all  we  could  get  out  of  the  old  fellow 
about  the  big  trout. 

As  we  sauntered  back  through  the  moonlight  to  the 
new  log-house,  we  decided  to  make  a  serious  attempt 
at  having  an  adventure  with  this  mysterious  and  rapidly- 
getting-famous  fish.  I  made  up  my  mind  if  I  hooked 
a  fish  that  had  the  power  of  turning  himself  at  will  into 
a  windfall,  I  would  at  least  pull  it  out  of  water  and  burn 

232 


The  Kejimkujik  Monster 

it  in  the  new  fireplace,  and  get  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction 
out  of  giving  the  old  rascal  a  brand-new  experience. 

Next  day  we  made  ready  for  the  tournament  with  the 
crafty  and  legendary  Salvelinus  fontinalis  mastodonus. 
I  put  together  my  five-and-a-half  ounce  nine-foot  rod 
and  rigged  it  with  a  salmon  reel,  salmon  line  and  leader. 
We  took  with  us  a  split-ash  pack-basket  having  a  canvas 
cover,  as  a  creel,  and  a  book  of  salmon-flies.  Paddling 
across  the  overflowed  meadows  to  the  mouth  of  the  Ke- 
jimkujik River,  a  distance  of  half  a  mile,  we  assiduously 
fished  all  the  pools  in  which  this  monster  trout  had  been 
reported.  We  caught  a  number  of  big  fish.  As  I  was 
using  a  fly  something  over  two  inches  long  with  a  silver 
tinsel  body,  decorated  with  a  pheasant  and  jungle-cock 
wing  (which  I  had  tied  myself),  only  a  big  trout  could 
get  the  lure  in  his  mouth.  After  sundown  we  gave  it 
up  and  paddled  back  to  camp. 

That  evening  I  wandered  over  to  discuss  the  subject 
once  more  with  old  Ma-tee-o.  He  was  taciturn  and 
moody,  but  finally  volunteered  this  cryptic  prophecy : 

"  No  man  catch  'im  and  kill  'im  till  all  white  men  go 
'way." 

"  Where  will  they  go,  Ma-tee-o  ?"  I  amusedly  asked. 

"  Back  to  Boston,"  he  grunted. 

That  ended  the  interview. 

For  four  days  following  we  tried  each  of  the  pools  in 
turn.  It  was  fine  fun,  fine  weather,  and  great  fishing, 
but  no  monster  trout  showed  up.  On  the  fifth  day  the 
sun  was  so  hot  by  ten  o'clock  that  we  quit  fishing,  and  the 
blackflies  not  being  yet  much  in  evidence,  we  went 
ashore  with  our  lunch-basket  at  the  old  tenting-ground 
below  Arthur's  Ledges.  We  lazed  around  till  lunch- 
time  in  such  shade  as  the  budding  birches  meagrely 
tendered. 

As  I  idly  lay  on  the  moss,  my  eye  caught  a  slight  move- 

233 


With  Gun  &>  Rod  in  Canada 

ment  among  the  leaves  near  the  lunch-basket.  In  £ 
second  or  two  a  little  kangaroo  mouse  hopped  curiously 
toward  it.  I  cautiously  reached  for  the  dip-net,  which 
was  leaning  against  a  near-by  tree,  and  the  next  instant 
had  Mr.  Mouse  all  tangled  up  in  it.  A  moment  more 
and  he  was  wiggling  alluringly  with  the  big  hook  of  my 
salmon-fly  under  his  backbone.  Playing  our  "  hunch  " 
for  all  it  was  worth,  we  stepped  into  the  canoe,  pushed 
out  into  the  stream  just  above  the  big  eddy,  dropped  the 
kellick  and  the  wiggling,  squealing  bait  almost  simul- 
taneously into  the  water. 

With  fifteen  feet  of  line  hardly  straightened  out  in  the 
current,  there  was  a  splash,  a  tug  at  the  line,  a  glimpse 
of  an  enormous  square  tail,  and  the  reel  sang,  "  Home, 
Sweet  Home  !"  We  had  him  !  He  ran  straight  down 
with  the  current,  making  for  the  middle  of  the  river. 
With  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of  real  salmon  line,  a 
leader  of  the  best  gut,  and  a  hook  made  for  handling  a 
twenty-pound  Nova  Scotia  winter  salmon,  I  wasn't 
worrying  much  about  that  fish  getting  away,  providing 
I  could  keep  him  from  snagging  the  line.  With  seventy- 
five  yards  out  I  put  on  the  brake.  In  ten  minutes  I  had 
him  quiet  and  gaping  within  reach  of  my  dip-net.  In 
another  instant  he  was  in  the  canoe,  apparently  drowned. 
He  was  a  monster.  The  mouse  was  gone.  My  hook 
was  driven  completely  through  the  hard  cartilage  of  his 
upper  jaw.  Two  other  small  but  much  worn  trout-flies 
stuck  belligerently  from  either  side  of  his  cavernous 
mouth  like  Prussian  moustachios.  Many  a  ragged  scar 
decorated  his  lips.  Holding  him  up  with  a  grin  of  glee 
to  my  canoe-mate,  who  had  greatly  assisted  with  much 
advice  while  I  was  landing  the  historic  warrior,  she  took 
his  picture,  with  the  Kodak  set  at  a  six-foot  focus,  and 
the  fine  light  of  high  noon  at  her  back.  Then  I  weighed 
him — six  and  three-quarter  pounds !  I  laid  the  limp 

234 


The  Kejimkujik  Monster 

and  now  quiet  fish  along  the  after  thwart  of  the  canoe, 
and  he  just  reached  from  rail  to  rail.  By  doubling  him 
up  in  a  half-circle,  I  put  him  in  the  pack-basket  creel, 
ostensibly  his  last  resting-place — but  one.  Reeling  up 
my  slack  line  and  making  my  tackle  snug,  I  took  hold  of 
the  kellick  rope,  which  passed  through  a  pulley  on  the  bow 
of  the  canoe  and  aft  to  a  cleat  on  the  thwart  just  ahead 
of  the  stern  seat,  and  tried  to  pull  it  up  so  that  we  could 
go  ashore  and  have  our  delayed  lunch.  The  kellick,  which 
was  a  five-prong  grab-hook,  was  snagged  and  would  not 
come  up.  After  trying  to  dislodge  it  by  all  the  conserva- 
tive and  traditional  methods,  my  partner  in  this  plot 
against  our  finny  antagonist  made  the  fatal  error  (I  regret 
to  say  at  my  direction)  of  moving  up  into  the  bow  of  the 
canoe  to  take  the  anchor  rope  in  her  hands.  The  current 
was  very  swift.  This  action  of  hers  made  the  canoe  bow- 
heavy,  and  it  immediately  began  to  switch  back  and  forth 
with  darts  of  increasing  length  while  she  was  tugging 
frantically  at  the  obstinate  hook.  I  did  my  best  to  hold 
the  craft  steady  and  pointed  upstream.  The  next  instant 
it  gave  a  lurch,  and  we  both  leaned  to  the  high  side.  At 
once  this  was  the  low  side — so  low  that  the  water  poured 
over  the  gunwale.  We  swamped  and  tipped  over.  Assur- 
ing my  breathless  and  spouting  partner  that  there  was  no 
danger,  a  few  strokes  brought  us  to  shallow  water.  With 
the  lady  safe,  and  some  of  the  water  out  of  our  eyes,  we 
spotted  the  creel  floating  downstream,  half  submerged 
but  upright. 

'  The  fish  !"  we  both  exclaimed,  horror-struck. 
Unsheathing  my  hunting-knife,  I  made  for  the  canoe. 
Cutting  the  entangled  anchor  rope  and  towing  it  ashore 
was  the  work  of  a  moment.  Rod  and  dip-net  with  one 
of  the  paddles  were  caught  under  the  thwarts.  The 
camera  was  gone.  I  had  dumped  the  water  out  of  the 
craft,  jumped  in,  and  was  paddling  furiously  after  the 

235 


With  Gun  &&  Rod  in  Canada 


big  creel,  almost  in  one  continuous  motion.  When  within 
a  few  feet  of  it,  and  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  below  the 
scene  of  the  accident,  the  basket  gave  a  lurch  and  tipped 
on  its  side.  The  cover  floated  partly  open,  and  as  I  shot 
alongside  and  made  a  desperate  lunge  for  it,  our  big  fish, 
with  others,  floated  out  on  its  side.  He  quivered,  gave 
a  sluggish  wriggle,  righted  himself,  and  with  a  disdainful 
flap  of  the  big  tail  departed  into  an  eddy  behind  a  rock. 

Perhaps  Ma-tee-o  was  right. 

But  the  big  fish  is  still  there  ready  to  break  a  lance  (or 
bamboo)  with  any  doughty  knight  of  the  rod  that  comes 
along. 

Key  to  Micmac  Words. 

Wigumi — "  I  am  fond  of  smoking." 
Adookse — "  I  will  tell  a  story." 
Meskek — "  Great,  enormous." 
Wiskoodaga — "  I  stab  him." 
Kwedun — "  Canoe." 
Kespeadooksit — "  The  story  is  ended." 


236 


Wild  Editors  I  Have  Known 

IN  the  spring  of  1919  I  had  a  wonderful  inspiration, 
or  "  hunch."  I  thought  it  would  be  an  historic  party 
if  I  could  succeed  in  getting  at  my  camp  on  Lake 
Rossignol  the  editors  of  all  the  sporting  magazines  in 
Canada  and  the  United  States.  It  would  undoubtedly 
make  a  symposium  of  the  most  famous  and  experienced 
sportsmen  that  could  be  assembled  under  one  roof. 
It  struck  me  as  though  a  love  for  hunting  and  fishing, 
experience  in  these  sports,  coupled  with  literary  ability, 
were  a  combination  of  talents  that  would  be  hard  to  beat. 
I  anticipated  a  memorable  and  instructive  meeting,  and 
so  invited  the  aforesaid  editors. 

The  party  did  turn  out  to  be  an  historic  one,  and 
although  the  enjoyment  of  the  occasion  did  not  arise  from 
exactly  the  elements  in  their  characters  which  I  expected, 
judging  by  the  enthusiasm  of  those  who  came,  they  all 
must  have  enjoyed  their  adventures  during  their  stay 
among  the  moose,  guides,  and  other  wild  things  of  our 
province. 

One  man  brought  a  44-40  rifle,  with  which  he  intended 
to  shoot  moose.  It  would  have  been  all  right  for  rabbits. 
Another  who  claimed  to  be  a  great  canoeist  insisted  upon 
wearing  hobnailed  boots  as  appropriate  for  this  branch 
of  sport.  One  of  the  bachelor  scribes  informed  us  that 
he  had  no  use  for  women,  and  talked  about  nothing  else 
for  a  week !  With  a  few  exceptions,  the  rough  side  of 
hunting  and  fishing  in  the  wilderness  did  not  appeal  to 
them  at  all.  And,  allowing  for  the  above  exceptions, 
most  of  them  lacked  skill  in  handling  canoe,  firearms, 

237 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 


and  rods.  As  entertainers,  however,  they  were  nonpareil. 
But  on  several  occasions  I  found  it  quite  necessary  to 
send  the  unsophisticated  guides  to  bed  as  the  "  hunting 
and  fishing  "  stories  increased  in  fervour  ! 

Why,  those  birds  had  hunted  and  fished  in  every  city 
on  the  map  !  They  could  guide  you  from  the  Battery 
in  New  York  to  the  jumping-off  place  in  San  Francisco, 
and  without  once  getting  out  of  sight  of  a  policeman — 
or  a  cabaret. 

In  spite  of  their  evident  reluctance  to  wander  far  from 
the  environment  of  the  cook,  fireplace,  spring-beds,  and 
other  "  modern  conveniences,"  I  felt  that  duty  impelled 
me  to  introduce  them  to  the  horns  and  fur  of  the  north 
woods.  Some  of  them  were  actually  persuaded  to  don 
their  hunting  clothes. 

As  the  first  morning  after  they  arrived  was  suitable 
for  moose  calling,  the  guides  conducted  one  of  the  editors 
to  a  likely-looking  barrens  about  twenty  minutes'  walk 
from  camp.  Just  before  daylight  they  called  up  a  fine 
bull  moose.  The  editor  fired  five  shots  at  the  animal, 
standing  some  fifty  feet  distant  and  aiming  carefully 
above  his  back,  so  as  not  to  injure  him.  This  performance 
surprised  the  beast  to  such  an  extent  that  he  walked 
indignantly  away.  Whereupon  the  editor  asked  the  guide 
to  kindly  call  the  moose  back,  which  the  said  guide 
obligingly  did.  And  again  the  moose  stood  patiently 
before  the  requiring  editor.  Once  more  the  trusty  rifle 
was  discharged  in  the  general  direction  of  the  moose, 
the  editor  being  careful  all  the  time  not  to  hit  the  animal. 
After  the  fusillade,  the  moose  just  naturally  departed  and 
refused  to  listen  to  the  imploring  voice  of  the  guide, 
when,  upon  request,  he  attempted  to  recall  him.  Now, 
the  guides  hold  that  this  editor  showed  the  best  sporting 
spirit  that  they  had  ever  seen  demonstrated  under  like 
conditions.  It  was  quite  evident  that  he  desired  to  see 

238 


Wild  Editors  I  Have  Known 

a  moose  called  up  and  was  anxious  to  have  the  thrill 
coincident  with  shooting  at  big  game,  but  at  the  same 
time  he  was  generous  enough  to  spare  the  animal's  life, 
so  that  some  other  sportsman  would  not  be  deprived  of 
an  equally  exciting  morning  ! 

The  next  day  one  of  the  other  wielders  of  the  weapon 
that  is  mightier  than  the  sword  participated  in  a  still- 
hunting  adventure.  In  company  with  a  guide  he  crept 
through  the  woods,  working  scientifically  to  windward, 
and  came  upon  a  whole  family  of  Alces  machlis.  Included 
in  this  company  was  a  magnificent  bull.  As  the  editor 
tells  the  story,  there  were  two  bulls,  one  with  a  fine  set 
of  horns  standing  broadside  to  view,  hardly  fifty  feet 
away  in  the  open  barrens,  and  the  other  was  the  "  bull  " 
made  by  the  editor  when  he  discovered  that  he  had  an 
empty  rifle  in  his  hands  and  had  left  all  his  cartridges  at 
the  camp. 

Another  editor  decided  not  to  follow  the  example  of 
his  fellow-hunters.  After  looking  the  field  over  for 
several  days,  he  picked  out  a  nice  bull  moose  with  decora- 
tive horns.  Two  well-directed  shots  were  instrumental 
in  supplying  meat  for  the  camp  and  a  fine  head  for  the 
editor's  den. 

Quite  a  problem  in  psychology  was  presented  when 
one  of  the  editors  exercised  his  personality  to  such  an 
extent  that  he  succeeded  in  losing  his  guide  and  incident- 
ally himself.  It  would  perhaps  be  unfair  to  the  guide 
to  say  that  it  was  a  demonstration  of  the  power  of  mind 
over  matter.  The  near  tragedy  was  brought  about  by 
the  discussion,  around  the  camp-fire,  of  the  value  of  the 
compass  to  the  hunter.  One  of  the  guides  mentioned 
that  the  compass  was  practically  useless  to  him  personally, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  he  found  it  very  difficult  to 
follow  the  direction  pointed  out  by  the  vacillating  needle. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  claimed  that  it  was  a  simple  matter 

239 


With  Gun      >  Rod  in  Canada 


to  avoid  getting  lost  when  one  paid  even  casual  attention 
to  the  points  of  the  compass  as  indicated  by  the  sun, 
stars,  moss  on  trees,  wind,  etc.  Several  ingenious 
methods  of  telling  the  north  were  propounded  by  the 
"  sports  "  and  guides  present,  and  much  interest  was 
evidenced  in  the  wood-lore  exhibited,  until  one  old  guide 
stated  that  the  surest  way  was  to  first  "  catch  a  moose," 
and  then  observe  its  growth  of  hair.  He  asserted  that 
the  hair  would  be  thickest  on  the  north  side  of  the  moose. 
This  broke  up  the  party. 

But  the  guide  and  sportsman  who  had  had  the  original 
dispute  about  the  value  of  the  compass  made  a  pact  to 
go  off  in  the  woods  together  on  the  following  day.  The 
sportsman  declared  that  he  could  lose  the  guide  in  broad 
daylight,  and  the  guide  insisted  that  he  could  so  mix 
up  the  sportsman  that  he  could  not  find  his  way  out, 
"  compass  or  no  compass." 

At  their  direction,  the  motor-boat  left  them  on  the 
eastern  shore  of  the  big  lake  with  a  canoe  and  enough  food 
for  two  meals.  They  did  not  return  that  night  to  the 
landing  where  they  had  been  left,  nor  the  next  night,  nor 
the  night  after  that.  A  search  party  hurriedly  organized 
found  them  on  the  third  day  sitting  disconsolately  on 
the  shore  of  the  lake,  miles  from  their  point  of  departure. 
Upon  questioning  the  forlorn  and  hungry  adventurers 
(for  it  had  rained  and  snowed  since  they  had  started  out), 
we  found  that  both  had  made  good  their  boast. 

The  man  with  the  compass  had  succeeded  in  losing  the 
guide,  and  hence  they  had  stayed  out  the  first  night. 
The  next  day  the  guide  convinced  the  sportsman  that 
the  compass  was  wrong,  hence  they  stayed  out  the  second 
night.  The  third  day  both  were  sure  that  the  compass 
as  well  as  all  nature  was  wrong,  so  they  had  to  stay  out 
the  third  night.  Luckily  they  had  discovered  the  freshly 
killed  carcass  of  a  moose  on  the  second  day,  which,  even 

240 


Wild  Editors  I  Have  Known 

though  eaten  without  salt,  kept  them  from  actual  starva- 
tion. One  would  have  thought  that,  as  both  the  con- 
tenders and  their  contentions  had  proved  to  be  correct, 
the  best  of  humour  would  have  prevailed,  but,  inexplic- 
able as  it  may  seem,  the  guide  insisted  that  his  sportsman 
was  a  nut,  and  the  sportsman  insisted  that  the  guide 
was  no  woodsman.  It  may  be  that  a  three  days'  diet 
of  half-raw  moose  meat  over-stimulated  their  primal 
instincts,  and  that  their  dispositions  were  simply  reverting 
to  type.  Anyway,  to  the  others  it  seemed  as  though 
both  were  to  blame  for  their  own  discomfort,  and 
also  for  the  worry  they  had  caused  the  rest  of  the 
party. 

Upon  being  closely  questioned,  the  guide  explained 
that,  although  he  had  known  every  foot  of  the  country, 
the  sportsman  had  so  zigzagged  him  about  that  he  had 
lost  his  sense  of  direction,  and  had  become  temporarily 
confused  on  the  first  day.  Cloudy  and  stormy  weather 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  see  any  distance,  nor  could 
he  see  the  sun.  Night  shut  down  before  he  had  succeeded 
in  finding  his  way  back  to  the  canoe,  and  he  found  it 
necessary  to  make  an  open  camp.  The  sportsman  kept 
insisting  and  reiterating  that  the  guide  was  lost,  and  the 
following  morning  was  still  more  insistent  upon  this 
fact,  until  the  guide  began  to  believe  it  himself.  In  his 
anxiety  to  actually  lose  his  guide,  the  sportsman  had  for- 
gotten the  general  lie  of  the  country,  and  both  of  the 
men  had  rather  depended  upon  the  other  for  some 
inkling  of  where  they  were.  Between  the  confusion  and 
sudden  realization  that  he  was  entirely  responsible  for  the 
welfare  of  the  visiting  sportsman,  the  unfortunate  guide 
had  completely  lost  his  head.  The  nagging  accusations 
of  his  vexed  charge  had  only  intensified  this  condition. 
Had  either  man  been  alone,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  neither 
would  have  been  lost. 

241  Q 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 

An  egotistical  Dago  once  declared  that  all  roads  led 
to  Rome;  but  of  a  certainty  some  lead  to  Roaming  ! 

Notwithstanding  the  metropolitan  inclinations  of  the 
editors  of  the  outdoor  magazines,  they  were  a  royal  bunch 
of  good  indoor  "  sports  "  (with  the  thrice  iterated  and 
respected  exceptions),  and  promised  to  again  bask  in  the 
light  of  our  fireside.  I  yet  live  in  the  hope  of  creating 
in  them  a  real  love  of  the  out-of-doors ! 


242 


T 


Arboreal  Aberrations 

REES! 

Lowell  had  something  to  say  about — 

"  Rippling  through  thy  branches  goes  the  sunshine, 
Among  thy  leaves  that  palpitate  for  ever"; 


and  another  Cambridge  savant  told  of  "  the  spreading 
chestnut-tree,"  under  the  branches  of  which  was  prob- 
ably a  good  place  to  gather  chestnuts  fit  to  eat,  and 
perhaps  some  unfit  to  repeat.  Wordsworth,  Keats, 
Shelley — all  had  something  to  say  about  trees  (although 
it  is  whispered  that  the  family-tree  of  the  latter  poet 
suffered  some  aberrations !).  Generally  speaking  and 
notwithstanding,  however,  the  trees  those  men  referred 
to,  either  evergreen  or  deciduous,  had  no  particular  or 
peculiar  points  of  interest  outside  of  being  a  part  of  the 
immortal  fabric  of  a  famous  poet-tree ! 

As  all  the  conventional  upstanding  trees,  from  the 
banyan  to  the  shoe-tree,  seem  to  have  been  prosed  and 
versed  until  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said  regarding 
them,  the  accompanying  pictures  of  abnormal  individuals 
may  be  of  interest. 

No.  i. 

This  shows  the  stump  of  a  pine-tree,  where  the  seed 
evidently  lodged  in  soil  formed  by  rotting  moss  or  other 
vegetation,  and  thriving,  thrust  its  tentacle  roots,  octopus- 
like,  down  over  the  boulder  and  into  the  more  intensive 
nourishment  of  the  ground.  Investigation  showed  three 
of  these  main  roots  enveloping  the  boulder,  none  of  which 

243 


With  Gun  ft?  Rod  in  Canada 


could  penetrate  the  rocky  soil  more  than  a  few  inches. 
The  tap-root,  which  usually  seeks  depth  for  moisture, 
seemed  to  be  entirely  lacking.  The  stump  measured 
sixteen  inches  across,  so  the  tree  apparently  throve  under 
these  peculiar  conditions  before  succumbing  to  the 
lumberman's  axe. 

No.  2. 

Where  the  foregoing  illustration  gives  a  tree  that 
depended  for  its  sustenance  and  its  foundation  strength 
upon  what  it  could  grasp  upon  the  rocky  surface,  the  pine 
in  this  picture  came  up  under  a  flat  rock  which  it  lifted 
during  its  growth.  It  then  spread  its  roots  out  in  all 
directions  beneath  the  environing  rocks,  which  had  been 
deposited  by  glacial  drift.  It  depended  upon  the  latter 
for  ballast.  When  the  tree  swayed  in  the  wind  there 
was  a  very  perceptible  movement  of  the  surrounding 
rocks.  The  soil  in  this  case,  also,  was  too  rocky  to  permit 
a  tap-root  to  penetrate  to  any  depth,  and  the  tree  trusted 
solely  to  its  rock  ballast  to  maintain  an  upright  position 
in  a  wind  storm,  and  upon  its  wide-spreading  roots  for 
moisture. 

No.  3. 

This  diminutive  spruce  is  a  veritable  parasite.  The 
seed  lodged  upon  the  edge  of  an  old  pine  stump,  and  was 
fed  from  the  moisture  accumulated  by  the  rotting  wood. 
Stretching  its  eager  roots  in  all  directions,  it  enveloped 
the  venerable  stump  and  ravenously  absorbed  any  nourish- 
ment it  contained.  As  shown  in  the  picture,  the  roots 
eventually  reached  the  ground,  and  are  seeking  new 
sources  of  nutriment  for  the  sturdy  young  suckling. 
If  this  tree  is  not  destroyed  for  the  purposes  of  the 
requiring  pulp  and  lumber  industries,  within  fifteen  years 

244 


To  face  p.  244 


Arboreal  Aberrations 

the  stump  will  have  disappeared,  the  tree  will  have  reached 
magnificent  proportions,  and  outside  of  a  little  irregu- 
larity of  the  tree's  roots  where  they  join  the  trunk,  there 
will  remain  no  sign  of  abnormality  of  growth. 


No.  4. 

Trees,  like  humans,  are  inclined  to  laziness  if  not  called 
upon  to  be  self-supporting.  This  otherwise  normal 
pine  for  twenty  years  has  leaned  thus  indolently  against 
a  rock.  Undoubtedly,  in  years  gone  by,  some  high 
easterly  wind  partially  uprooted  it,  but  the  friendly 
boulder  prevented  its  crashing  to  the  ground.  The  tree, 
finding  its  position  comfortable,  appropriated  the  assist- 
ance tendered  as  a  lifelong  privilege.  One  might  think 
that  a  strong  westerly  wind  would  set  the  tree  back  to  a 
perpendicular  position,  but  an  examination  of  the  roots 
disclosed  the  fact  that  the  cavities  left  in  the  uprooting 
process  are  completely  filled  by  vegetation  which  pre- 
cludes the  possibility  of  the  tree's  ever  being  replaced  by 
nature. 

No.  5. 

Trees  have  either  power  to  think,  or  instinct.  This 
picture  shows  the  stump  of  a  maple  which  was  partly 
undermined  by  the  swift  current.  It  leaned  so  far  out 
over  the  stream  that  its  branches  dragged  in  the  water 
and  impeded  a  drive  of  logs  floating  down  the  river. 
The  lumber-jacks  cut  the  tree  off  as  revealed  in  the 
picture,  leaving  one  large  and  healthy  branch  almost 
touching  the  water.  This  branch  immediately  turned 
upward  in  its  growth,  with  the  object  of  keeping  clear 
of  the  flood,  and  is  now  quite  a  tree,  calipering  some 
fourteen  inches  through  the  upright  part  of  the  trunk. 
It  draws  upon  the  old  tree's  roots  for  nutrition. 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 


No.  6. 

That  the  instinct  trees  have  for  not  allowing  their 
branches  to  grow  down  into  the  water  is  not  uncommon 
may  be  proved  by  observation  along  the  wooded  banks 
of  any  stream.  In  this  picture  are  shown  several  trees 
that  through  the  undermining  of  the  roots  have  taken  a 
decided  list  toward  the  stream.  The  high-water  level 
during  the  spring  floods  is  several  feet  above  the  level 
shown  in  the  picture.  When  the  trees  grow  to  within  a 
few  inches  of  this  high-water  level,  trunks  and  branches 
take  an  upward  turn.  The  result  is  some  very  curious 
contortions  in  tree  growth. 

No.  7. 

Many  years  ago  an  oak-tree  was  broken  off  by  the 
wind,  the  trunk  falling  prone  upon  the  bank  of  the  stream. 
The  upper  limbs  dried  up  and  rotted  away.  The  bark 
and  some  of  the  outside  layers  of  the  tree-fibre  did  not 
break  when  the  tree  fell,  but  remained  attached  to  both 
root  and  trunk  like  a  huge  hinge.  One  of  the  lower 
branches,  barely  more  than  a  sprout,  remained  uninjured 
on  top  of  the  fallen  trunk.  In  twenty  years  the  sprout 
has  grown  into  a  splendid,  erect,  well-formed  tree,  now 
measuring  nearly  twelve  inches  through.  The  roots 
of  the  old  oak  feed  this  youngster  through  the  fallen 
trunk,  and  some  of  the  rotting  branches  on  the  upper  end 
of  the  old  trunk  have  helped  meet  the  demands  of 
the  thriving  offspring  by  taking  root  in  the  ground. 
Thus  the  young  oak  is  growing  as  if  upon  a  bridge, 
receiving  its  moisture  through  the  fabric  of  the 
structure. 


246 


To  face  p.  246 


Arboreal  Aberrations 


No.  8. 

From  this  remarkable  picture  we  gather  that  the  twin 
maples  perched  up  on  top  of  the  rock  had  their  start 
from  seeds  which  sprouted  in  a  deposit  of  fern  mould, 
and  ran  their  roots  down  over  the  rock  to  the  abundance 
of  the  soil,  in  the  stream's  bank.  Judging  from  the 
gnarly  protuberances  in  the  trunks  near  the  top  of  the 
rock,  at  one  time,  probably,  roots  ran  down  over  the  face 
of  the  rock  and  into  the  water.  Some  shifting  of  near-by 
boulders  in  the  stream  subjected  the  roots  to  the  chafing 
of  ice  and  eventually  amputated  them.  The  years  have 
healed  the  wounds,  and  the  maple  twins  sit  proudly  on 
their  rocky  pedestal  admiring  themselves  in  the  placid 
water. 

During  years  of  observation  of  tree  growth  many 
equally  interesting  freaks  have  come  to  my  notice.  One 
tree  might  aptly  be  termed  "  The  Fiddler."  This  is  a 
case  where  two  pines  are  growing  close  together  and  the 
branch  of  one  chafes,  in  the  wind,  across  the  trunk  of  the 
other,  giving  a  near  imitation  of  a  squeaky  fiddler  at  a 
barn  dance.  It  is  a  common  occurrence  for  a  seed  to 
lodge  in  a  rock,  and,  as  it  grows,  to  split  the  rock  in  twain. 
Again,  a  yellow  birch  fell  in  the  crotch  of  another;  its 
top  broke  off  and  rotted  away,  while  its  trunk  grafted  to 
the  wound  made  in  the  crotch,  thus  forming  a  rustic 
bridge.  In  another  case,  an  acorn  left  under  the  founda- 
tion of  a  house  took  root  and  grew,  displacing  part  of  the 
foundation.  The  owner  from  year  to  year  had  to  remove 
foundation-stones  to  make  room  for  its  roots.  As  it  was 
considered  a  curiosity,  instead  of  destroying  the  tree, 
the  owner  preferred  to  repair  his  crowded  foundation 
to  suit  the  tree's  growth.  In  another  instance,  a  branch 

247 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 


limb  of  an  old  pine  grew  inward  toward  the  trunk  and 
chafed  in  the  wind  until  it  grafted  to  the  main  trunk, 
thus  forming  a  truss  or  brace  that  will  effectually  prevent 
the  great  tree  from  splitting  from  overgrowth  or  weight 
of  snow  and  ice. 

Why  the  poets  have  not  selected  the  unusual  to  write 
about  is  an  unanswered  riddle.  Perhaps  they  believed 
that  such  irregularities  were  subjects  for  scandalmonger- 
ing  society  reporters  rather  than  versifiers.  But  however 
that  may  be,  it  has  been  my  purpose  to  show  that  there 
are  some  trees  of  character  among  many  of  the  common- 
place. 


248 


What  to  Take  for  Spring  and 
Summer  Fishing  in  Nova  Scotia 

IN  the  following  resume  of  the  correct  fishing  tackle 
and   clothing   for    a   combined   canoe,   tenting,  and 
fishing  trip  in  Nova  Scotia,  it  is  my  intention  to  touch 
only  upon  the  essentials.     Many  alleged  comforts  and 
luxuries  may  be  added  as  experiments.     Owing  to  the 
method  of  fishing,  which  is  all  from  canoes,  a  little  added 
weight  is  not  any  consideration. 

It  is  usual  for  any  well-equipped  guide,  or  sporting- 
camp  proprietor,  to  furnish  a  first-class  tent,  canoe, 
paddles,  dishes,  axes,  lantern,  blankets,  etc. 

FLY-RODS. 

At  least  two  best  quality,  split  bamboo  fly-rods,  not 
over  9  feet  in  length,  nor  over  5^  ounces  in  weight. 

REELS. 

Any  make  of  first-class  duplicating  trout  reels,  capable 
of  holding  50  yards  of  line.  The  writer  has  used  a  Kelso 
automatic  reel  for  the  last  eight  years  with  wonderful 
satisfaction,  and  it  is  still  going  strong. 

LINE. 

Fifty  yards  of  best  enamelled  silk  trout  line.  Although 
25  yards  of  line  and  a  5-ounce  rod  will  handle  a  3$-pound 
trout  with  ease,  there  are  occasions  when  your  flies  might 
get  snagged  or  lodged  in  the  trees.  If  your  canoe  is 

249 


With  Gun     P  Rod  in  Canada 


moving  in  a  swift  current,  plenty  of  line  gives  the  guide 
an  opportunity  to  get  the  headway  off  his  craft  before  the 
line  is  all  paid  out,  with  the  consequent  breaking  of  the 
leader  and  loss  of  flies. 

LEADER. 

Use  the  best  three-loop  English  gut  trout  leader  of 
medium  weight,  not  over  6  feet  long.  There  is  no  object 
in  using  an  extremely  fine  leader,  as  Nova  Scotia  trout 
are  not  particular.  Do  not  start  out  with  less  than  six 
leaders  for  a  week's  fishing. 

FLIES. 

Use  good-sized  flies.  The  big  trout  are  not  apt  to 
notice  small  ones.  Whatever  flies  you  bring,  include 
six  each  of  the  following:  Parmachene  Belle,  Montreal, 
Royal  Coachman,  Silver  Doctor,  Ginger  Quill,  Maple 
Bud. 

BAIT-HOOKS. 

One  dozen  with  gut  attached,  the  right  size  for  using 
minnow  bait.  If  the  weather  happens  to  be  grey,  foggy, 
or  rainy,  the  limit  can  be  caught  fishing  under  water  with 
live  bait,  when  the  trout  wouldn't  look  at  a  fly.  The 
fish  caught  this  way  are  usually  large  ones. 

DIP-NET. 

Use  a  folding  dip-net  with  a  handle  in  two  joints. 
When  assembled,  the  handle  should  be  4  feet  long;  the 
bow  should  be  of  the  take-down  variety,  preferably  of 
steel,  and  the  net  itself  should  have  a  minnow  bottom  so 
that  it  can  be  used  for  dipping  bait. 

250 


Spring  and  Summer  Fishing 

CREEL. 

Use  the  collapsible  canvas  creel  in  preference  to  the 
basket.  If  you  have  an  optimistic  imagination,  buy  a 
big  one;  if  you  are  pessimistic,  get  a  little  one.  In  any 
case,  you  will  catch  your  twenty  a  day  if  you  fish. 

MATCH-BOX. 

Should  be  made  of  rustless  metal  and  watertight. 

KNIFE. 

Buy  a  large,  common,  two-bladed  jack-knife  with  a 
corkscrew  (if  you  are  inclined  that  way).  It  should  have 
a  ring  through  the  handle  so  that  a  key-chain,  or  other 
lanyard,  may  be  attached.  A  jack-knife  is  more  con- 
venient than  a  sheath-knife.  Pick  out  one  with  a  good, 
smooth,  round  handle,  so  that  it  will  not  blister  your 
hands  when  whittling  (a  necessary  adjunct  to  a  rainy  day). 

COMPASS. 

Not  necessary,  since  you  are  going  to  travel  by  water 
with  a  guide,  and  all  the  streams  lead  to  the  sea.  If  you 
do  get  one,  buy  the  kind  that  you  can  pin  to  the  front 
of  your  vest  or  jersey. 

FLY-DOPE. 

Trust  to  your  sense  of  smell  in  buying  this.  Pick  out 
the  strongest-smelling,  greasiest-looking  mess  you  can 
find.  Nova  Scotia  blackflies  are  no  epicures  when  it 
comes  to  dope,  as  their  sense  of  taste  has  been  somewhat 
blunted  from  years  of  indulgence.  They  have  arrived 
at  a  stage  where  they  enjoy  only  the  very  strongest  and 

251 


With  Gun     ?  Rod  in  Canada 


rankest  concoction.  Using  a  little  forethought  this  way, 
you  will  find  the  flies  will  appreciate  your  efforts  in  their 
behalf  and  hardly  bother  you  at  all.  Most  of  your  fishing 
will  be  done  in  the  wide,  breezy  streams,  and  the  flies 
will  not  molest  you  unless  you  loiter  ashore  in  the  shade. 
They  do  not  bite  at  night. 

CLOTHING. 

Hat.  —  Light-weight  felt  with  medium  brim. 

Fly-Net.  —  Don't  bring  one  if  you  like  to  chew  or  smoke. 

Gloves.  —  Light  cotton  or  kid  with  the  fingers  cut  off. 
They  will  last  only  a  day  or  two,  anyway. 

Underclothes.  —  The  kind  you  are  used  to.  If  you  want 
to  visit  Nova  Scotia  in  the  latter  part  of  May  or  June, 
you  will  find  the  nights  cool,  and  you  may  encounter 
some  rainy  weather  with  east  winds.  In  the  Lake 
Rossignol  district  the  climate  is  about  the  same  as  Boston 
at  the  same  time  of  the  year. 

Shirt.  —  Don't  buy  one.  Get  a  light-weight,  long- 
sleeved,  turtle-necked,  wool  jersey,  and  tuck  it  down 
inside  your  trousers.  This  will  protect  you  from  the 
flies  and  other  insects  (if  you  sleep  on  the  ground),  and 
having  no  opening  in  front,  as  an  outing-shirt  has,  fools 
the  blackflies  completely.  A  flea  has  nothing  on  a  blackfly 
when  it  comes  to  crawling  inside  a  fellow's  shirt. 

Socks.  —  The  kind  the  girls  knit  for  the  soldiers.  Two 
pairs. 

Shoes.  —  Use  low,  cowhide  moccasins  with  an  insole. 
High-  heeled  boots  are  an  abomination  in  a  canoe.  Besides 
being  injurious  to  the  craft,  they  are  difficult  things  to 
swim  in,  in  case  you  tip  over.  Carry  an  extra  pair  of 
insoles  and  extra  socks.  Oiled  tan  moccasins  will  not 
soak  water.  In  case  you  wet  your  feet,  a  fresh  pair  of 
socks  and  dry  insoles  will  make  you  comfortable  with  the 
same  moccasins. 

252 


Spring  and  Summer  Fishing 

Coat. — A  light  slicker  or  oil-coat  of  ample  size,  and  not 
too  long  for  walking.  A  waterproof  canvas  or  duck  coat 
may  be  taken.  Do  not  bother  with  sou'wester,  rubber 
boots,  or  heavy  lined  storm-coats. 

Sweater. — Take  a  good,  heavy,  all-wool,  rolled-neck 
sweater  coat.  This,  under  your  canvas  coat  or  slicker, 
will  protect  you  sufficiently  from  any  cold  or  storm  you 
may  encounter. 

To  the  above  outfit  you  can  add  as  many  luxuries  and 
inconveniences  as  the  sporting-goods  salesman  is  able  to 
force  upon  you:  a  compass  to  be  pinned  to  your  manly 
chest;  a  flash-light  to  accompany  your  night  rambles; 
a  miniature  axe  in  a  fancy  leather  case;  a  sleeping-bag  with 
eider-down  furnishings;  a  i6-pound  balloon  silk  tent; 
a  full  set  of  aluminium,  interlocking,  doubleback-action 
cooking  and  eating  utensils;  a  folding  drinking-cup  in  an 
alligator  case;  a  hot-air  mattress  for  cold  nights,  a  folding 
bath-tub;  a  tea-basket,  and  a  wife,  are  all  luxuries  that 
add  to  the  hilarity  of  the  occasion.  In  case  of  the  last- 
mentioned  appurtenance,  we  would  suggest  that  she  wear 
the  same  kind  of  clothes  as  her  man — with  one  or  two 
exceptions. 

A  Nova  Scotia  fish  licence  costs  $5.00,  and  may  be 
obtained  from  the  fish  warden  at  Caledonia  (on  the 
Halifax  and  South- Western  Railway),  if  you  are  going  to 
fish  in  the  Lake  Rossignol  waters,  or  from  any  fish  warden 
in  the  town  nearest  to  your  contemplated  fishing  territory. 


253 


Letter  from  Jo  Kose — Guide 

Or,  How  a  Nova  Scotia  Woodsman  Assisted  the 
Movie  Actors 


Fas  CAMP,  Sep.  i,   1940. 

DEAR  DAN, — You  onct  ast  me  to  rite  you  about 
the  moving  pitcher  outfit,  and  how  tha  cum 
out  when  down  here,  tha  wus  the  movenest  bunch 
i  ever  seen,  but  if  it  werent  for  yours  truely  tha  woodnt 
uv  dun  much.  Well  i  mite  as  well  begin  at  the  beginin 
as  to  start  at  the  end  so  here  gos.  one  day  i  hered  a 
rumpus  out  the  road  aways  and  it  sounded  like  a  circus 
wus  cumin  rite  into  our  woods.  Well  i  expected  them 
but  not  till  the  next  day  so  wus  sirprised.  well  in  cum 
3  automobils  loaded  chuck  full  of  aktors  and  actorines 
(i  lerned  from  the  bunch  that  a  cow  aktor  was  a  aktorine 
so  spring  it  on  you  it  is  a  new  one)  yessir  tha  wus  loaded 
to  the  gards  and  one  busted  a  tiar  cumin  in  and  one  had 
a  leaky  radeator  and  she  lost  her  water  the  feller  that 
stered  her  told  me  but  you  no  tha  is  a  lot  uv  waterin 
brooks  on  the  road  and  so  tha  could  keep  stopin  and  filin 
her  up.  Tha  wus  loaded  allrite  but  gut  here  at  last  yellin 
and  singin  like  anything  tha  wus  to  aktors  that  wus  all 
dolled  up  and  smelt  like  wimmen  and  to  regular  men  that 
run  the  kamra  and  a  big  fat  feller  that  had  a  lot  2  say  and 
five  gurls  dressed  up  in  them  dude  pants  hie  laced  boots 
and  rigged  out  like  men  all  cept  the  hare,  you  could  not 
tel  em  frum  men  cept  by  the  hare  and  smell  unless  you 
dance  with  em  or  sumthen  tha  called  them  pants  ridin- 

254 


Letter  from  Jo  Kose — Guide 

britches  but  i  cant  see  any  good  uv  em  atall  tha  button 
up  in  3  places  and  u  waste  a  lot  uv  valuble  time  that 
way  then  tha  are  tite  where  tha  orter  be  luce  and  baggy 
where  it  woodnt  hurt  anyone  if  tha  wus  tite  and  if  u  should 
get  a  sheep  tick  or  a  flea  on  you  it  would  die  of  apoplexy 
or  old  age  befor  you  could  get  your  pants  off  to  kill  it 
well  tha  all  piled  out  uv  the  automobils  and  ast  if  i  wus 
the  gide  and  i  says  yes  i  am  the  hed  gide  and  showd  em 
that  nife  that  Fred  Clark  give  me  that  says  i  am  the 
bigest  gide  and  the  best  liar  in  Nova  Scotia  and  when 
tha  seen  who  tha  wus  talkin  to  tha  gut  more  respectfull 
rite  away  and  i  helped  em  up  to  Fils  camp  with  there 
stuff  i  only  made  one  trip  as  tha  made  me  tak  up  a  kupla 
heavy  suit  cases  wich  tha  sed  contaned  hare  tonik  and 
ast  if  did  i  use  it  and  when  i  told  em  if  it  cum  in  botles 
i  sure  did  tha  sed  it  wus  grate  to  make  hare  grow  and  I 
litle  gurl  jumps  up  on  a  chare  and  made  me  let  her  rub 
sum  on  my  hed  it  was  grate  and  sum  run  down  over  my 
face  and  into  my  mouth  i  told  her  not  to  waste  it  on  my 
hare  as  it  would  make  the  hare  grow  on  a  eel  if  he  could 
just  drink  sum  direct  rite  inside  his  hed  insted  uv  on  it 
and  she  done  so  and  then  we  all  had  one  and  i  singed  a 
shanty  that  one  about  the  woman  and  her  dead  baby  and 
it  made  a  big  hit  and  when  tha  ast  me  to  sing  a  sad  one 
i  cum  rite  back  at  em  and  sed  he  who  lafs  loudest  takes 
up  the  most  room  it  pays  to  show  these  city  folks  that  all 
the  brains  dont  grow  down  in  new  york  and  that  tha 
can  find  sumone  intelagent  to  talk  to  up  in  the  woods, 
and  then  we  all  had  a  small  one  sum  put  water  with  the 
hare  tonik  and  sed  it  went  beter  that  way  and  tha 
thanked  me  for  showin  em  how  to  use  it  and  then  we  had 
sum  more  tonik  and  by  this  time  the  cook  had  supper 
reddy  and  the  fat  man  came  in  and  begun  to  bawl  out 
everybody  and  when  i  invited  him  to  have  sum  tonik 
he  ast  whos  is  it  and  i  cum  rite  back  at  him  an  ses  every- 

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With  Gun  £P  Rod  in  Canada 


bodys,  he  ses  you  must  think  your  a  lot  uv  peple  and  tha 
wus  a  lot  uv  bones  left  over  when  tha  gut  ready  to  make 
you  and  i  cum  rite  back  at  him  and  tells  him  that  the  way 
his  wus  rapped  up  he  must  be  ashamed  uv  em  and  made 
a  big  hit  with  the  gurls.  Everyone  wus  feeling  prety 
good  by  now  and  tha  sure  did  git  after  the  cooks  grub 
i  made  quite  a  hit  tellin  em  about  that  operashun  my  wife 
had  las  fal  and  about  that  ingrowin  toe  nale  i  pulled  off 
tha  gut  so  intrested  that  sum  furgut  to  eat  there  suppers 
and  sum  sed  tha  wus  to  tired  to  eat  the  fat  man  and  me 
had  another  run  in  about  hare  tonik  after  supper  and  he 
bawled  me  out  and  them  aktors  fur  drinkin  hare  tonik 
we  told  him  to  chase  hisself  and  he  thretened  to  can  the 
hole  outfit  if  tha  didnt  sober  up  after  supper  and  i  told 
him  that  it  wus  the  rite  time  to  do  it  but  wood  any  time 
betwene  now  and  mornin  do  ?  we  had  another  rownd 
and  a  kupla  uv  the  gurls  tried  to  teach  me  the  chemise 
(thats  the  furst  word  i  have  had  to  look  up  in  the  dik- 
shunary)  tha  pronunced  it  sumthin  like  Jimmy  but  did 
it  better  than  tha  sed  it.  i  run  down  to  the  boat  hous 
fur  a  bot.  uv  Jamaca  Ginger  when  the  ist  one  started 
it  i  thot  shure  she  was  getin  a  dose  uv  chils  and  feever 
it  shure  shook  em  rownd  like  anything  and  made  em  look 
like  tha  wus  havin  argue,  i  explaned  to  em  that  a  man 
wusnt  bilt  rite  to  shake  hisself  that  way  but  we  had  a  cow 
that  could  do  it  and  then  done  a  step  dance  fur  em  and 
we  had  a  kupla  more  and  then  sumthin  i  eat  fur  supper 
must  hev  disagrede  with  me  and  i  had  to  leve  i  gess  the 
cook'll  hev  to  lern  to  make  grub  so  it  will  mix  with  hare 
tonik  if  he  feeds  this  bunch  fur  long,  long  bout  10  oclock 
i  wus  layin  in  the  grass  jus  in  the  shadder  uv  the  boat  hous 
and  long  cums  Mister  fat  rrian  with  one  uv  the  young 
fellers  he  stans  nere  me  and  tells  the  young  feller  to  shoot 
up  the  whole  blamed  outfit  when  he  sez  the  word  and  to 
be  shure  to  cover  all  the  akshun  and  not  to  miss  that 

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Letter  from  Jo  Kose — Guide 

long  ligged  tank  that  drink  so  much  hare  tonik  up  in  the 
cabin  etc.  i  new  that  fat  gi  wus  a  crook  the  minit  i  furst 
seen  him  and  here  he  wus  planing  to  shoot  up  the  hole 
bunch  the  nex  day.  the  young  feller  says  sumthin  about 
the  lite  and  then  old  smarty  he  explans  that  the  lite 
wood  be  good  enuif  out  over  the  water  even  if  the  sun 
didnt  shine  and  to  reehearse  the  gides  and  all  well  befor- 
hand  etc.  what  he  sed  about  the  hearse  wood  have  made 
your  skin  craul  i  nowed  he  wus  mene  but  i  did  not  think 
he  wus  mene  as  all  that  so  i  conkluded  to  put  a  spoke  in 
his  weel  fur  him.  after  breckfus  all  hands  were  out  in 
front  uv  the  cabin  the  gurls  wus  dressed  like  wimmen 
and  all  had  a  sort  uv  yaller  look  like  tha  had  janduce 
i  ast  what  wus  the  mater  and  told  em  to  drink  sum  herb 
tea  or  eat  a  live  frog  apeace  and  it  wood  stop  it  rite  away 
but  it  seams  that  it  was  paint  on  there  face  and  not  the 
belly  ack  that  wus  making  em  yaller  tha  sed  it  made  em 
redj  ester  better  whatever  that  is  in  english  sumthin 
smutty  i'll  betcher.  one  uv  the  men  had  a  big  kamra  set 
up  nere  the  portch  and  one  uv  them  she-men  aktors  wus 
struttin  arownd  and  bullyraggin  a  kupla  gurls  and  all 
at  onct  he  pulls  a  gun  on  them  gurls  and  the  old  fat  man 
yells  that  tha  are  rotton  and  tha  begin  to  cry  and  carry 
on  so  i  jus  jumps  in  and  takes  his  gun  away  and  slaps  him 
across  the  mouth  and  saves  the  gurls  and  ruffs  him  up 
sum  and  everyone  laffs  and  the  aktor  gits  sore  and  the 
fat  man  akts  discuraged  like  and  tells  me  the  young  man 
is  jus  play-aktin  and  to  leve  him  be  i  gives  him  a  shove 
when  i  lets  go  uv  him  fur  luck  anyways  and  he  bumps 
hisself  on  a  rock,  them  to  gurls  liked  it  bekause  tha  begin 
to  laff  where  tha  wus  cryin  in  the  same  place  and  thats  the 
princepul  thing  to  plese  the  ladys.  the  fat  man  tells  me 
to  reestrain  myself  and  try  to  kepe  out  uv  the  pitcher 
when  he  started  his  litle  game  i  didnt  tell  none  uv  the 
other  gides  about  the  plot  as  i  figgered  i  could  handel  the 

257  R 


With  Gun  &  Rod  in  Canada 

bizness  myself,     bimby  we  all  went  out  on  the  lak  in 

kanews  i  had  2  gurls  with  me  the  other  gides  each  had  sum 

plus  sum  uv  the  aktors,  the  fat  man  stans  on  the  warf  and 

makes  us  paddel  arownd  and  tells  us  what  to  do  but  i 

wus  waching  him  close  as  the  feller  with  him  had  a  gun 

and  all  hands  had  guns  in  the  kanews  and  finnaly  as  we 

wus  all  strung  out  and  racing  fur  the  warf  the  fat  feller 

yells  to  shoot  so  i  jus  stopped  padlin  jerked  my  old  45  and 

tells  him  no  you  dont  and  lets  fly  a  kupla  shots  near  his 

feet  he  makes  a  kupla  buck  jumps  and  fades  away  back 

uv  the  boat  hous  and  the  others  yell  and  holler  and  laff 

and  tell  me  to  cut  it  out  that  he  werent  meaning  no  harm 

but  wus  just  tellin  the  kamra  man  to  shoot  at  them  with 

the  thinggumbob  he  wus  turning  a  crank  on.     when  i 

learned  he  wus  jus  foolin  i  told  him  it  wus  all  rite  to  cum 

out  and  he  cursed  me  out  sumthin  wiked  he  sed  i  wus  a 

bad  aktor  and  i  cum  rite  back  and  sed  he  wus  a  good  runner 

it  made  a  big  hit  it  dont  pay  to  let  them  dudes  git  away 

with  anthing  like  that,     then  as  i  seen  no  sense  in  what 

tha  wus  doin  and  the  boss  wus  yellin  his  hed  off  about  not 

gittin  a  desent  pitcher  i  sez  here  you  are  then  and  i  begun 

doin  stuntz  in  my  kanew  you  now  how  i  can  handel  a 

kanew  when  i  git  started  well  i  stood  on  my  hed  and 

padled  standin  up  and  done  the  beever  flip  and  all  them 

champeen  stuntz  and  then  tipped  her  over  and  swum 

ashore  with  one  uv  the  aktoreens  and  the  kanew  the  other 

sed  she  could  swim  o.k.  then  i  dumped  the  water  out 

and  clumb  in  over  her  stern  and  done  a  few  more  things 

with  her  so  the  kamra  man  could  git  sum  good  pitchers. 

did  yer  git  em  all  rite  i  ast  no  he  sez  his  kamra  wus  broke 

then  i  ofered  to  do  the  tricks  all  over  agin  but  he  sed  it 

wus  most  lunch  time  and  he  wood  have  to  use  a  quickker 

open  and  shut  her  or  words  like  em  and  them  gurls  akted 

like  tha  wus  sore  the  fat  man  seemed  discuraged  or  sick 

or  sumthing  and  just  set  still  rubbin  his  head  all  the 

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Letter  from  Jo  Kose — Guide 

other  folks  wus  enjoyin  my  show  and  clapin  and  havin 
a  fine  time  the  cook  rung  the  bell  and  we  all  went  up  to 
lunch  and  had  sum  more  hare  tonik  and  then  another 
one  or  2.  the  fat  feller  sez  i  wus  to  take  em  over  to  the 
river  in  the  afternoon  and  as  i  wood  have  to  work  fast 
id  better  have  sum  more  hair  tonik  and  i  took  sevral 
and  after  lunch  felt  prety  sleepy  so  jes  dropt  down  fur  a 
nap  under  a  tree  when  i  woke  it  wus  sundown,  did  yer 
wate  fur  me  and  why  didnt  yer  wake  me  i  ast  an  aktoreen 
i  am  sory  to  have  held  up  the  hole  bizness.  you  didnt 
she  told  me  then  i  ofered  to  go  out  and  do  the  hole  show 
over  agin  but  tha  sed  it  wus  no  nede  and  we  had  sum 
more  hare  tonik  and  a  kupla  more  and  went  to  supper, 
tha  didnt  go  to  the  river  after  all  but  took  a  few  pitchers 
as  well  as  tha  could  without  me  the  fat  boss  told  me  rite 
where  we  akted  in  the  mornin,  so  we  started  the  granny- 
fone  and  did  sum  chemises  and  then  i  gut  3  other  gides 
and  with  4  aktoreens  we  put  on  a  old  fashined  country  8. 
it  wus  a  big  hit  i  called  it  off  and  we  swung  them  gurls 
in  grate  stile  you  now  how  it  gos : 

bow  to  your  sweteharts 

trot  out  yer  pet 
balance  yer  korners 

swing  em  till  tha  sweat — 

prety  thing  aint  it  ?  the  boss  he  likes  it  so  well  he  gits 
the  boys  to  bring  in  sum  big  lites  and  takes  one  pitcher 
whilst  we  were  dancin  and  sez  it  is  grate  i  wus  glad  he 
thot  sumthing  i  done  wus  grate  it  rain  fur  a  kupla  days 
and  we  staid  in  and  used  quit  a  lot  of  hare  tonik  and  done 
sum  more  uv  them  chemises  and  one  steps  only  it  takes 
morn  one  step  to  do  it  and  sum  cheek  dancin  which  was 
to  cheeky  fur  me  then  the  boss  fat  man  sez  to  take  em 
all  over  to  the  falls  on  the  river  after  he  seen  us  gides 
shoot  the  rapids  and  do  sum  fansy  stuff  he  reehearses 

259 


With  Gun  &P  Rod  in  Canada 

the  hole  outfit  and  sez  he  is  goin  to  make  em  do  a  thriller 
he  calls  it.  what  do  i  do  i  asts  him  sit  still  and  be  redd/ 
to  pull  em  out  if  tha  tip  over  he  sez  that  didnt  sute  me 
none  so  i  gits  a  kupla  wimmen  that  aint  aktin  to  go  out 
in  my  kanew  and  i  run  the  falls  standin  up  and  stood  on 
my  hed  rite  in  the  big  water  and  cum  thru  safe  all  hands 
cheered  except  the  boss  did  you  git  the  pitcher  i  ast  the 
kamra  man  he  shook  his  hed  and  pinted  at  the  boss  who 
wus  cursin  and  hollerin  sumthing  ferefull.  he  shakes 
his  fist  at  me  but  i  dont  pay  no  atenshun.  hes  gellous 
i  tells  my  gurls  cose  we  put  on  a  beter  show  than  he  did 
and  run  rite  by  em  on  the  falls  he'l  take  a  fall  out  uv  you 
sez  one  uv  my  wimmen  sorter  fresh,  yes  he  will  i  cum 
back  at  her  il  pull  his  head  off  and  put  it  in  his  mouth  i 
tells  her.  you  think  yer  strong  dont  yer  she  sez.  im 
strong  fur  you  i  tells  her  and  she  sed  no  more,  the  boss 
makes  a  bet  i  cant  beet  Jim  one  uv  the  other  gides  i  mile 
down  river  and  back  and  i  takes  him  on  and  trims  him 
good  when  i  gut  back  the  boss  give  me  hell  cose  i  wasnt 
arownd  and  sez  tha  jes  gut  thru  taken  the  pitcher  and  wus 
sory  tha  had  to  do  it  without  me  i  ofered  to  do  it  all  over 
agan  but  he  sez  kinder  sad  no  its  2  late,  well  i  cant  be 
runnin  kanew  races  and  play  aktin  fur  you  all  the  same  time 
and  all  hands  laff  it  wus  a  good  one  on  him  i  gess  and  then 
we  went  back  to  lunch  the  boss  takes  me  outside  after 
lunch  and  tells  me  to  slip  over  to  the  river  without  sayin 
nothin  to  nobuddy  and  at  2  oclock  to  start  polin  up  the 
falls  and  runnin  down  and  to  do  stuntz  both  ways  and 
heel  put  a  kamra  man  hiding  in  the  bushes  to  tak  my 
pitcher  and  then  heel  have  sumthing  to  spring  on  the 
bunch  as  a  sirprise  sumday  and  to  do  them  stuntz  till 
4  P.M.  then  cum  back  to  camp,  so  i  done  so  and  gut 
tired  as  hell  and  i  never  seed  that  kamra  a  tall  but  ile  bet 
he  wus  sum  sirprised  at  what  i  dun  that  day  as  i  put  on  a 
few  new  ones,  when  i  gut  back  it  wus  supper  time  and 

260 


Letter  from  Jo  Kose- -Guide 

all  hands  wus  glad  to  see  me  i  ast  the  kam.ra  man  how  he 
liked  my  show  and  he  sez  what  show  and  i  wispers  my 
stuntz  on  the  falls  and  he  sez  O  sort  uv  sirprised  and  then 
let  on  he  had  been  takin  pitchers  uv  sum  log  cabin  stuff 
rite  at  camp  all  the  afternune  and  hadnt  been  to  the  river 
a  tall,  then  i  nowed  it  wus  all  a  seecret  so  guv  him  the 
wink  and  let  her  go  at  that,  at  supper  the  boss  ast  how 
fur  is  it  to  Caledonia.  12  miles  i  tells  him.  its  2  long  a 
walk  fur  a  man  to  take  he  sez.  O  sum  fellers  is  man  enuff 
to  stand  it  i  cum  rite  back  at  him.  i  gut  a  dollar  that  sez 
you  aint  he  bawls  out  mad  rite  off.  now  Dan  you  now 
i  am  slow  to  anger  but  that  cheep  sport  wusnt  going  to 
down  me  so  i  sez  make  it  2  and  ile  go  yer  i  sez.  he  sez 
ile  lose  my  money  and  i  sez  put  up  or  shut  up  and  so  he 
puts  up  and  i  borow  another  dollar  and  gits  the  cook  to 
hold  the  skates  and  starts  out  nex  mornin  and  thats  whi 
ime  riting  these  few  lines  from  Caledonia  insted  uv 
camp  i  dont  alow  no  city  fat  stif  to  put  it  over  me  nosir  and 
ile  go  back  and  kerlect  from  the  cook  this  P.M.  and  have 
a  good  laff  on  the  boss,  when  brains  wus  bein  past  out 
tha  must  uv  past  up  that  smarty  ile  rite  you  sum  more 
in  a  kupla  days. 

yours  sinserly 

Jo  KOSE 

Gide. 

P.S.  excuse  the  bad  riting  but  that  founting  pen  you 
wuz  goin  to  send  me  aint  here  yit 

Jo  KOSE 

p.s.  between  chemises  and  ridin  pants  and  runnin 
rapids  and  warkin  out  here  ime  feelin  sort  uv  laxy  so  must 
stop  and  hit  the  hay.  solong 

Jo- 
p.s.  i  furgot  what  i  wuz  goin  to  say 

Jo. 


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